The last stroke of eleven drummed softly through the thick leafage of the orchard. Rosamond sped down the path, as sure-footed as if she wore no other heels, or soles either, than the ones she had come into the world with, and by which Mother Earth had held little Rosamond Cort of the Poplars Vale farm in close acquaintance until the fancy butter-pats had reduced poverty and inspired ambition.
She executed faithfully the commissions she had given herself. After having entranced “Dollop’s Drugs” via telephone, by sending him to inform Bella Greenup—the lady of his heart—that her culinary art was in requisition, she called for the number of that important gentlewoman, whose nature—as Mrs. Lee had said—epitomized Roseborough.
“Good-morning, Mrs. Witherby.”
“Who is it? Oh, of course; it is Mrs. Mearely.” The answer came back in rather high accents and the over-emphasized impressiveness that commonly garnishes the slim utterances of self-importance. “I was saying to Corinne not five minutes ago—actually, my dear Mrs. Mearely, not five minutes ago, or ten at the most—‘I think I shall drive round to Mrs. Mearely’s this afternoon.’ Yes! that is exactly what I said to Corinne not five moments ago.”
“How—er—remarkable! Then it is fortunate I rang up; because I shall be out all afternoon and would be so disappointed if I returned to find that I had missed you.”
“Indeed? Where are you going?”
“Ah! you may well ask what I am going to do.”
“What? What? A secret? (Be quiet, Central, I’m talking.)”
“A beautiful secret, but I’m going to tell you about it now. It is Mrs. Lee’s secret and she has asked me to let you know of it first. If she had a telephone she would be telling you about it now herself. However, she said that she felt sure you would allow me to be her messenger.”
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Mearely!”