‘What kind of girl is that Florence?’ asked William.
‘Oh! a nice, lively, pleasant girl,’ said Claude.
‘I cannot make out what her pursuits are,’ said Lily; ‘Rotherwood never talks of her reading anything.’
‘She has been governessed and crammed till she is half sick of all reading,’ said Claude, ‘of all study—ay, and all accomplishments.’
‘So that is the friend you recommend, Lily!’ said William.
‘Well, Claude, that is what I call a great shame,’ said Emily.
‘Stay,’ said Claude, ‘you have heard but half my story, I say that this is the reaction. Florence has no lack of sense, and if you young ladies are wise, you may help her to find the use of it.’
Claude’s further opinion did not transpire, as dinner was announced, and nothing more was said about Lady Florence till the girls had an opportunity of judging for themselves. She had a good deal of her brother’s vivacity, with gentleness and grace, which made her very engaging, and her perfect recollection of the New Court, and of childish days, charmed her cousins. Lady Rotherwood was very kind and affectionate, and held out hopes of many future meetings. The next day Maurice and Reginald came home from school, bringing a better character for diligence than usual, on which they founded hopes that the holidays would be left to their own disposal. They were by no means pleased with the arrangement made with Mr. Stevens and most unwillingly did they undertake the expedition to Stony Bridge, performing the journey in a very unsociable manner. Maurice was no horseman, and chose to jog on foot through three miles of lane, while Reginald’s pony cantered merrily along, its master’s head being intent upon the various winter sports in which William and Lord Rotherwood allowed him to share. Little did Maurice care for such diversions; he was, as Adeline said, studying another ‘apology.’ This time it was phrenology, for which the cropped heads of Lilias and Jane afforded unusual facility. There was, however, but a limited supply of heads willing to be fingered, and Maurice returned to the most abiding of his tastes, and in an empty room at the Old Court laboured assiduously to find the secret of perpetual motion.
A few days before Christmas Rachel Harvey again took leave of Beechcroft, with a promise that she would make them another visit when Eleanor came home. Before she went she gave Emily a useful caution, telling her it was not right to trust her keys out of her own possession. It was what Miss Mohun never would have done, she had never once committed them even to Rachel.
‘With due deference to Eleanor,’ said Emily, with her winning smile, ‘we must allow that that was being over cautious.’