After this flattering tale, it was disheartening to arrive in town on a chilly September day, under a pouring rain, and to see the desolate appearance presented by the Red House.
It was seven in the evening before they reached Holloway, and drove up the dark carriage drive, clumped by laurels, to the hall door.
After the grand description given by Bobby of his Mamma’s barouche lined with olive green satin, Harriet was rather astonished that they should have to charter cabs from the Victoria Station to Holloway, instead of being met by the Baroness’s private carriage. But she discovered afterwards that though there was a barouche standing in the coach-house, which had been purchased in a moment of reckless extravagance by Madame Gobelli, there were no horses to draw it, and the only vehicle kept by the Baroness was a very much patched, not to say disreputable looking Victoria, with a spavined cob attached to it, in which William drove the mistress when she visited the boot premises.
The chain having been taken down, the hall door was opened to them by a slight, timid looking person, whom Harriet mistook for an upper housemaid.
“Well, Miss Wynward,” exclaimed the Baroness, as she stumped into the hall, “’ere we are, you see!”
“Yes! my lady,” said the person she addressed, “but I thought, from not hearing again, that you would travel by the night boat! Your rooms are ready,” she hastened to add, “only—dinner, you see! I had no orders about it!”
“That doesn’t signify,” interrupted the Baroness, “send out for a steak and give us some supper instead! ’Ere William, where are you? Take my bag and Miss Brandt’s up to our rooms, and, Gustave, you can carry the wraps! Where’s that devil Bobby? Come ’ere at once and make yourself useful! What are you standing there, staring at ’Arriet for? Don’t you see Miss Wynward? Go and say ‘’ow d’ye do’ to ’er?”
Bobby started, and crossing to where Miss Wynward stood, held out his hand. She shook it warmly.
“How are you, Bobby?” she said. “You don’t look much stronger for your trip. I expected to see you come back with a colour!”
“Nonsense!” commenced the Baroness testily, “what rubbish you old maids do talk! What should you know about boys? ’Ow many ’ave you got? ’Ere, why don’t you kiss ’im? You’ve smacked ’im often enough, I know!”