“And the other, Miss Togsie, is a literary lady, and is lodging with old Mrs. Perkins; do you happen to know her name?”
I had never heard it before.
“Ah! neither had I. But then that would not be remarkable. Only she seemed surprised to think I did not know of her, though, so far as I can ascertain, she has never actually published anything. She is engaged on some book of research, which she regards as an important contribution to the literature of the times, though for the moment the subject has escaped my memory. She is so exceedingly anxious to meet you; in fact, she—er—suggested that I should take her with me to call on you; but I told her that you come down here for rest and quiet, and to escape the conventionalities of society. She is rather a—er—persistent lady, however; and she says her admiration for you is unbounded. So possibly, if you have no objection, it might make a pleasant interlude if she were invited also.”
I was not very anxious to have her, but I agreed, as the Rector seemed to wish it. Still, I am afraid my smile was a trifle ironical, as I tailed the list with her name.
Unfortunately, the very day of the meeting was the one suddenly selected by Abigail’s sister for her wedding; of course, I insisted that Abigail must not miss the function, and sent her back to town the day before. But when the preparations were divided between the three of us, they did not amount to much in the way of extra work; and Ursula made herself responsible for the fresh relays of tea that would be necessary for new arrivals.
As is the custom in the country, everybody walked round the garden to see how the things were coming on, and we all compared notes with each other’s gardens, and, of course, everybody complimented me on the forwardness of my things—as in duty bound, seeing they were drinking my tea!
The V.A.D. proved a delightful girl, very nervous at first, but very appreciative. And as all my other visitors were fully engaged in chatting together in twos and threes, I devoted myself to the shy outsider. The Literary Lady had not yet appeared.
“I come up every day and look over the wall at your flowers,” the girl said. “I believe they’ve done me far more good than the tonic I’ve been taking.”
“I invariably take a dose of them myself, when I’m run down,” I replied. We were wandering around the narrow paths, between the beds edged with pieces of grey stone. The paths were beginning to be weedy; and the garden was a mixture of early and late spring flowers, owing to the undue length of the winter.