‘Nita,’ repeated Mr. Bolton, ‘I’ve brought you a visitor; Mr. Jerome Wellfield, who will stay with us a short time. My daughter, Mr. Wellfield, and my cousin, Miss Margaret Shuttleworth.’
Nita Bolton smiled, shook hands with the guest, and said, ‘How do you do?’
Miss Shuttleworth stiffly inclined her head, but did not make any overtures towards shaking hands.
‘Will you not sit down, Mr. Wellfield?’ said Nita, pointing to a chair, which he took, and she went on:
‘Have you just arrived in Wellfield?’
‘I arrived about an hour and a half ago. I have been looking at my house—Monk’s Gate.’
‘Oh, have you? It is a pretty little house.’
‘Very. So humble and unobtrusive-looking,’ said Jerome.
‘And damp,’ observed Miss Shuttleworth; and though she did not speak loudly, she spoke in a manner which made it impossible to ignore her remarks. Indeed, whenever Miss Shuttleworth spoke, an impartial observer must have said that she put a portentous amount of expression into her utterances.
‘You think it is damp?’ said Jerome, politely turning to her, while Nita’s colour rose, and her fingers trifled nervously with her watch-chain.