"Madame?" cried Célestine, running to find out what her mistress wanted.
"Célestine, pack my things, we are going back to London."
"Tout de suit, Madame?"
"Don't stop to argue, Célestine. Pack! Pack!"
The preparations for their return to London were no sooner finished than Mary was seized with nervousness. Suppose she presented herself at this house to fetch her granddaughter and the little girl, who by now was twelve and likely to have a mind of her own, refused to accompany her? It would be a dreadfully inauspicious beginning to what she hoped was going to be the happiest time since Richard was alive. It would be easier to welcome the child here by herself. She should feel less self-conscious, and the child separated from her companions would be more ready to accept her grandmother. If she had a house in London it would be different; but she should be afraid to take her to an hotel. Yes, it was better to be patient for an extra day and send Célestine to fetch her. Besides, there was much to prepare here. There was Mary's bedroom to be got ready. She must choose the furniture herself. She knew exactly what a child of twelve would like. There were toys to buy. She would not be too old for dolls and a really good doll's-house and a variety of games which perhaps she would enjoy playing with her grandmother. It might be advisable to begin looking about for a good governess. If only she could find somebody like Mademoiselle Lucinge. Yes, it would be wiser to send Célestine to fetch her. Célestine could be trusted? Or should she telegraph to Muriel and ask her to arrange for a trustworthy person to escort the child? No, that might delay matters. Muriel was so particular, and in Gloucestershire she might not be able to find the right person at once. No, Célestine must go.
On New Year's Day Mary was sitting by the fire-side reading a yellow French novel. The doors of the salon were flung open by François, and she heard the voice of her maid.
"Allez-y, mademoiselle. Voilà Madame qui vous attend."
Thin black legs moving in gingerly steps over the gleaming parquet. A shy face hiding itself in the wraps of the long journey.
"My darling child, here you are at last!"
"Oh, grandmother, you've thrown your book in the fire. Shall I pick it out for you?"