Sydney took the larger share in the conversation. Miss Morrell had a knack of drawing people out, and the girl found herself telling of the Chichester family at home, and making her new friend laugh over funny anecdotes of Fred and Prissie.
“You must have found it dull at the Castle just at first, after being used to so large a party,” Miss Morrell said.
“I did,” Sydney owned frankly, “and I find it rather dull still. But Lady Frederica is kind and amusing, and I like—yes—I do quite like, Cousin St. Quentin.”
Miss Morrell had stooped to pick up the handkerchief she had dropped while Sydney was speaking. She took rather a long time in doing so, and when her head appeared again there was a lovely colour in her face.
“I am afraid I hear your carriage now, dear,” she said, rising, “and we must not keep the horses standing, must we? No, put away your purse; I asked you to tea. I expect we shall find your maid waiting for you downstairs.”
“I do hope I shall see you at the calisthenic class!” Sydney said earnestly, and Miss Morrell smiled and said she hoped so too.
“Well, what do you think of Dacreshaw?” asked Lord St. Quentin, as Sydney peeped into the library about an hour later, with a large parcel under her arm.
She came and sat down beside him, and undid the string with business-like gravity.
“It is a perfectly lovely place!” she assured him, “and the print-shop is delightful. The pictures were all so nice that I hardly knew how to choose among them. Look at that Greuze, Cousin St. Quentin, isn’t her face just sweet? I’ve seen the original of that in the Wallace collection. Hugh took Mildred and Dolly and me there one day last year.”
“That eternal Hugh!” muttered the marquess, but beneath his breath, and Sydney chattered on without hearing.