“Child, how old are you?”
“Nineteen, Madam,” answered Rhoda, in much surprise.
“Two years!” responded Madam,—which words were an enigma to her granddaughter.
But as Rhoda was of a romantic temperament, and the central luminary of her sphere was Rhoda Peveril, visions began to dance before her of some eligible suitor, whom Madam was going to put off for two years. She was more perplexed than ever with the next question.
“Would you like a companion, child?”
“Very much, Madam.” Anything which was a change was welcome to Rhoda.
“I think I will,” said Madam. “Ring the bell.”
I have already stated that Madam was impulsive. When her old butler came in—a man who looked the embodiment of awful respectability—she said, “Send that woman here.”
The woman appeared accordingly, and stood courtesying just within the door.
“Your name, my good woman?” asked Madam, condescendingly.