“The Thornbury trees,” she said, “are beginning to recover from the shocks you gave them, but Harry has to go and explain and apologise to them. I know he apologises.”
The girl had not time to answer; the pony did not like stopping, and whisked them away.
“Helen was looking very well,” remarked Mrs Leslie. “What was she saying about the Thornbury trees?”
“I had to cut down a few,”—Claudia hesitated—was it possible she was becoming reluctant to allude to what had been her pride?—“I went down there, you know,”—she lifted her head, and out came the obnoxious word—“professionally.”
“Good gracious, what do you mean?”
“Has Arthur not told you that I was—that I am a landscape gardener?” asked Claudia, with all the dignity she could call to her aid.
Mrs Leslie broke into a peal of laughter.
“My dear child, I beg your pardon, but you are so comic! Arthur’s wife a landscape gardener! How long have you played with this amazing fancy?”
“It has not been play,” said Claudia stiffening. “I went through a regular training, and have had two engagements.” And then she broke off suddenly with a miserable wonder how the engagements, in which she had felt such an honest pride, had come to her. One was through Harry Hilton, and the other through Fenwick. Could it be possible! She murmured the Wilmots’ name, and Mrs Leslie’s next words completed her humiliation.
“Oh, the Wilmots!” she said, still laughing. “Flo will do anything for Arthur.”