Miss Lambent and Miss Beatrice had noticed the new schoolmistress with a couple of chilly bows, and then devoted themselves to the assistance of “dear Miss Burge;” while the giver of the feast was busy in conference with Mr Chute about certain sports that were afterwards to take place.
“I don’t see the Canninges carriage yet Beatrice,” said Miss Lambent, in a whisper to her sister, as the ladies were strolling about the grounds and admiring the flower-beds, the conservatory, and grape-houses in turn.
“Do you think they will come?” whispered Beatrice, who looked rather flushed; but certainly the day was hot.
“She said they would. Dear me, how strange of Henry!”
The vicar had gone into the paddock, and, after raising his hat politely, was standing talking to Hazel at intervals between saying a few words to the boys and girls—words, by the way, which they did not wish to hear, for every eye was turned as if by a magnet towards the great tent, and the man and maidservants and assistants constantly going to and fro.
“Here they are at last,” exclaimed Miss Lambent. “I told you so. Now, Beatrice, what do you say?”
“Nothing,” replied her sister quietly.
“Then I say something. George Canninge wouldn’t have come here to a children’s school feast unless he had expected to meet some one particular.”
The object of their conversation had just helped a tall, handsome lady, with perfectly white hair, to descend from a phaeton drawn by a splendid pair of bays. He was a broad-shouldered, sparely-made man of about thirty, with dark, closely-cut whiskers—beards were an abomination then—and keen grey eyes, which took in the whole scene at a glance, and, what was more, to find satisfaction as he took off and replaced his grey felt hat, and then, from habit, took out a white handkerchief and dusted his glossy boots.
“How absurd, mother! Thought I’d been walking,” he said. “Bravo, Burge! He’s doing it well. Hang it mother! I like that fellow.”