‘O, mamma, it is Miss Sandbrook’s. She is teaching him to dress flies, because she says he can’t be a real fisherman without, and the trout always rise at hers. It is quite beautiful to see her throw. That delicate little hand is so strong and ready.’
A door was opened, and out of the housemaid’s closet, defended from light by a yellow blind at every crevice, came eager exclamations of ‘Famous,’ ‘Capital,’ ‘The tower comes out to perfection;’ and in another moment Lucilla Sandbrook, in all her bloom and animation, was in the room, followed by a youth of some eighteen years, Francis Beaumont, an Indian nephew of Mrs. Prendergast.
‘Hit off at last, isn’t it, aunt? Those dog-tooth mouldings will satisfy even the uncle.’
‘Really it is very good,’ said Mrs. Prendergast, as it was held up to the light for her inspection.
‘Miss Sandbrook has bewitched the camera,’ continued he. ‘Do you remember the hideous muddles of last summer? But, oh! Miss Sandbrook, we must have one more; the sun will be off by and by.’
‘Only ten minutes,’ said Lucilla, in a deprecating tone. ‘You must not keep me a second more, let the sun be in ever such good humour. Come, Sarah, come and show us the place you said would be so good.’
‘It is too hot,’ said Sarah, bluntly, ‘and I can’t waste the morning.’
‘Well, you pattern-pupil, I’ll come presently. Indeed I will, Mrs. Prendergast.’
‘Let me see this translation, Sarah,’ said Mrs. Prendergast, as the photographers ran down-stairs.
She looked over it carefully, and as the ten minutes had passed without sign of the governess’s return, asked what naturally followed in the morning’s employment.