“Oh, don’t bother.”
“He knows there isn’t any nonsense about us,” said Beatrice.
To this last familiar refrain, the train actually began to move out of the station at last. Lydia waved her hand once or twice, received curt nods in reply, and sank back with a feeling of relief on to her seat.
The end of the Senthovens.
She could not help feeling glad that her visit was over.
The familiar quiet of Regency Terrace awaited her now. Aunt Beryl, as her letters had assured Lydia, once more returned to the unobtrusive rôle out of which her illness had momentarily forced her into unsuitable lime-light. Uncle George, certain to be full of quiet pride in the result of the examination, even Mr. Monteagle Almond, next Wednesday, probably framing elaborate little congratulatory sentences.
Lydia looked forward intensely to it all.
She wondered how Grandpapa would receive her, and mentally conned over the amusing descriptions that she would give him in private of the Senthoven ménage, treading upon his well-known prejudice against that slang in the use of which it was so proficient.
She did not expect to be met at the station, but sent her luggage by the omnibus, and herself walked to Regency Terrace by the short cut, remembering as she did so her arrival, more than three years ago, under the care of both aunts, and full of uncertainty as to her own eventual destination.
Security, reflected Lydia maturely, was the most important thing of all. One was secure where one was appreciated, and held to be of importance.