"Was it that tall young lady you called a 'beast'?" asks Miss Lilian, demurely. "If so, it wasn't very polite of you, was it?"
"Oh,"—with a laugh,—"did you hear me? I doubt I have begun our acquaintance badly. No, notwithstanding the provocation I received (you saw the withering glance she bestowed upon me?), I refrained from evil language as far as she was concerned, and consoled myself by expending my rage upon her companion,—the man who was seeing after her. Are you tired?—Your journey has not been very unpleasant, I hope?"
"Not unpleasant at all. It was quite fine the entire time, and there was no dust."
"Your trunks are labeled?"
"Yes."
"Then perhaps you had better come with me. One of the men will see to your luggage, and will drive your maid home. She is with you?"
"Yes. That is, my nurse is; I have never had any other maid. This is Tipping," says Miss Chesney, moving back a step or two, and drawing forward with an affectionate gesture, a pleasant-faced, elderly woman of about fifty-five.
"I am glad to see you, Mrs. Tipping," says Cyril, genially, who does not think it necessary, like some folk, to treat the lower classes with studied coldness, as though they were a thing apart. "Perhaps you will tell the groom about your mistress's things, while I take her out of this draughty station."
Lilian follows him to the carriage, wondering as she goes. There is an air of command about this new acquaintance that puzzles her. Is he Sir Guy? Is it her guardian in propria persona who has come to meet her? And could a guardian be so—so—likable? Inwardly she hopes it may be so, being rather impressed by Cyril's manner and handsome face.