“But you didn’t come to tell us that!” said Arabella. “What is it?”
“Nothing but one of Harry’s hums!” said Margaret.
“No such thing!” retorted her brother. “Joseph Eccles has been down to the White Hart, and brought back the post with him.” He perceived that he had succeeded in riveting his sisters’ attention on himself, and grinned at them. “Ay, you may stare! There’s a letter from London, for Mama. Franked by some lord, too: I saw it.”
Margaret’s book slipped from her fingers to the floor; Sophia gave a gasp; and Arabella flew up out of her chair. “Harry! Not—oh, not from my godmother?”
“Oh, ain’t it?” said Harry.
“If it comes from London, it must be from Lady Bridlington!” declared Sophia. “Arabella, I do believe our fortunes are in a way to being made!”
“I dare not suppose it to be possible!” said Arabella, quite faintly. “Depend upon it, she has written to say she cannot invite me!”
“Nonsense!” replied her practical sister. “If that were all, pray why should Mama take the letter to my father? I regard the matter as settled already. You are going to London for the Season.”
“Oh, if it could be so indeed!” said Arabella, trembling.
Harry, who had abandoned knot-making in favour of trying to stand on his head, overbalanced at this moment, and fell in a heap on the floor, together with a chair, Sophia’s work-box, and a hand-screen, which Margaret had been painting before succumbing to the superior attraction of The Ladies’ Monthly Museum. Beyond begging him not to be such an ape, none of his sisters censured his clumsiness. He picked himself up, remarking scornfully that only a girl would make such a fuss about a mere visit to London. “The slowest thing!” he said. “I should like to know what you think you would do there!”