They were joined in a few minutes by a prim, dignified little lady, ridiculously like Mr. Pengarth, whom he called sister, and she Miss Rachael. Juliet walked down the garden between them.
“Sister,” Mr. Pengarth said, “Juliet has come today to see me on business. In effect, she has come to remind me that she is grown up.”
“Grown up,” Miss Rachael protested vigorously, “rubbish!”
“I am nineteen years old,” Juliet declared.
“And what if you are,” Miss Rachael replied briskly. “In my young days we were in the nursery at nineteen.”
“Quite so,” Mr. Pengarth assented with relief. “You took me by storm just now, Miss Juliet. After all, you are only a child.”
“I am old enough to feel and to mean all that I said to you, Mr. Pengarth,” she answered gravely. “And that reminds me, too—there was something else I meant to ask you.”
“Sister,” Mr. Pengarth said, “have you ordered the wine and the cake?”
“Bless me, no!” Miss Rachael declared. “It shall be ready in five minutes.”
She entered the house. Mr. Pengarth stooped to pick some lavender.