“I’m Mrs. Ian Campbell,” Gladys explained. “And this is Ian. And this is Proodles, and at home there’s Groggles, who’s too small for anything except pantomimes. And that’s Mrs. Ralph Dennison, and that’s Ralph, and that’s Stumpy, and at home Enid’s got a girlie called Barbara. Mother hates being a grandmother four times over, so she’s called Aunt Victoria, and of course father’s still one of the children. We’ve both been married seven years.”
Nothing had so much brought home to Sylvia the flight of time as this meeting with Gladys and Enid, who when she last saw them were only sixteen. It was incredible. And they had not forgotten her; in what seemed now a century they had not forgotten her! Sylvia told them about Miss Ashley’s visit and suggested that they should come and join the party of girls from Hornton House. It would be fun, would it not? Miss Primer was still at the school.
Gladys and Enid were delighted with the plan, and on the day fixed about twenty girls invaded Sylvia’s dressing-room, shepherded by Miss Primer, who was still melting with tears for Rodrigo’s death in the scene. Miss Ashley had brought the carriage to drive Sylvia back, but she insisted upon going in a motor-’bus with the others and was well rewarded by Miss Primer’s ecstasies of apprehension. Sylvia wandered with Gladys and Enid down well-remembered corridors, in and out of bedrooms and class-rooms; she listened to resolutions to send Prudence and Barbara to Hornton House in a few years. For Sylvia it was almost too poignant, the thought of these families growing up all round her, while she, after so many years, was still really as much alone as she had always been. The company of all these girls with their slim black legs, their pigtails and fluffy hair tied back with big bows, the absurdly exaggerated speech and the enlaced loves of girlhood—the accumulation of it all was scarcely to be borne.
When Sylvia visited Arbor End and talked once again to Mrs. Worsley, sitting at the foot of her bed, about the wonderful lives of that so closely self-contained family, the desolation of the future came visibly nearer; it seemed imperative at whatever cost to drive it back.
Shortly before Christmas a card was brought round to Sylvia—“Mrs. Prescott-Merivale, Hardingham Hall, Hunts.”
“Who is it?” she asked her maid.
“It’s a lady, miss.”
“Well of course I didn’t suppose a cassowary had sent up his card. What’s she like?”
The maid strove to think of some phrase that would describe the visitor, but she fell back hopelessly upon her original statement.
“She’s a lady, miss.” Then, with a sudden radiancy lighting her eyes, she added, “And there’s a little boy with her.”