“Why, one cannot give the poor thing quite up,” said Ethel.
“You will manage the ladies at last!” cried Flora.
“Not while Mrs. Ledwich is there!”
“I’ll cope with her! But, come, I want you in my room—”
“May not I come?” said Meta. “I must see when—”
Flora held up her hand, and, while signing invitation, gave an arch look to Meta to be silent. Ethel here bethought herself of inquiring after Mr. Rivers, and then for George.
Mr. Rivers was pretty well—George, quite well, and somewhere in the garden; and Meta said that he had such a beard that they would hardly know him; while Flora added that he was delighted with the Oxford scheme. Flora’s rooms had been, already, often shown to her sisters, when Mr. Rivers had been newly furnishing them, with every luxury and ornament that taste could devise. Her dressing-room, with the large bay window, commanding a beautiful view of Stoneborough, and filled, but not crowded, with every sort of choice article, was a perfect exhibition to eyes unaccustomed to such varieties.
Mary could have been still amused by the hour, in studying the devices and ornaments on the shelves and chiffonieres; and Blanche had romanced about it to the little ones, till they were erecting it into a mythical palace.
And Flora, in her simple, well-chosen dress, looked, and moved, as if she had been born and bred in the like.
There were signs of unpacking about the room-Flora’s dressing-case on the table, and some dresses lying on the sofa and ottoman.