Blanche looked up fearfully.
“What wis I, Sir Thomas?” languidly answered the lady. “I reckon she could be ready in a month or so. Where would you have her go?”
“A month! I mean to-night.”
“To-night, Sir Thomas! ’Tis not possible. Why, she hath scantly a gown fit to show.”
“She must go, nathless, Orige. And it shall be to the parsonage. They will do it, I know. And Clare must go with her.”
“The parsonage!” said Lady Enville contemptuously. “Oh ay, she can go there any hour. They should scantly know whether she wear satin or grogram. Call for Clare, if you so desire it—she must see to the gear.”
“Canst not thou, Orige?”
“I, Sir Thomas!—with my feeble health!”
And Lady Enville looked doubly languid as she let her head sink back among the cushions. Sir Thomas looked at her for a minute, sighed again, and then, opening the door, called out two or three names. Barbara answered, and he bade her “Send hither Mistress Clare.”
Clare was rather startled when she presented herself at the boudoir door. Blanche, she saw, was in trouble of some kind; Lady Enville looked annoyed, after her languid fashion; and the grave, sad look of Sir Thomas was an expression as new to Clare as it had been to the others.