A minute later the wagonette was gaily upon its way again, Hugh in excellent spirits now he had laid the little demon of compunction that had been troubling his kind heart since breakfast.
And Larkin was cantering happily down to “Greenways,” his own pocket (he kept his right-hand pocket for the money due to Octavius, and his left-hand for his own tips) the heavier by a shilling.
“Miss Bibby, Miss Bibby!” cried Pauline.
“And now what is it?” said Miss Bibby, whose nerves by this time were in a condition that made the reiteration of her own name a positive offence to her. She was dressed for going to the post, and had a long official envelope directed “To the Editor of the Evening Mail” tucked under her arm. But she had paused by the kitchen fire on her way [p133] out to superintend the blancmange which Anna was making for the children’s tea, and which, they complained bitterly, she always made lumpy.
“Larkin is at the door,” said Pauline, “and he’s got something for you from Mr. Kinross.”
“Where, where?” said Miss Bibby, fluttering forward. Larkin passed the card to Pauline. Pauline passed it to Miss Bibby—and on such small things does our destiny hang—the wrong side up.
That is to say the nauseating statement about the prime middle cut at elevenpence a pound was what met the eye of the eager Miss Bibby.
An ebullition of anger such as rarely visited the gentle lady rose within her now.
She flung the card angrily into the fire.
“You are a very rude little girl, Pauline,” she said; “it is excessively ill-bred to play jokes upon people older than yourself. And as for Larkin——”