“Wait till you see if she comes,” said Mrs. Westgate. “And if she’s to meet us at her son’s house the obligation’s all the greater for her to call on us.”
Bessie hadn’t to wait long, for it appeared that her friend’s parent now descried the direction in which, according to her companion’s observation, courtesy pointed. On the morrow, early in the afternoon, two cards were brought to the apartment of the American ladies—one of them bearing the name of the Duchess of Bayswater and the other that of the Countess of Pimlico. Mrs. Westgate glanced at the clock. “It isn’t yet four,” she said; “they’ve come early; they want really to find us. We’ll receive them.” And she gave orders that her visitors should be admitted. A few moments later they were introduced and a solemn exchange of amenities took place. The Duchess was a large lady with a fine fresh colour; the Countess of Pimlico was very pretty and elegant.
The Duchess looked about her as she sat down—looked not especially at Mrs. Westgate. “I daresay my son has told you that I’ve been wanting to come to see you,” she dropped—and from no towering nor inconvenient height.
“You’re very kind,” said Mrs. Westgate vaguely—her conscience not allowing her to assent to this proposition, and indeed not permitting her to enunciate her own with any appreciable emphasis.
“He tells us you were so kind to him in America,” said the Duchess.
“We’re very glad,” Mrs. Westgate replied, “to have been able to make him feel a little more—a little less—a little at home.”
“I think he stayed at your house,” the visitor more heavily breathed, but as an overture, across to Bessie Alden.
Mrs. Westgate intercepted the remark. “A very short time indeed.”
“Oh!” said the Duchess; and she continued to address her interest to Bessie, who was engaged in conversation with her daughter.
“Do you like London?” Lady Pimlico had asked of Bessie, after looking at her a good deal—at her face and her hands, her dress and her hair.