The meal was a good one. The old lady received a portion of her rents “in kind,” and was never at a loss for fresh poultry, fish, or vegetable, not to speak of game; but it was soon over, for the presiding genius evidently looked upon it in the light of a serious business which was not to be trifled with. When the last dish had been brought in and removed, the dowager got up from her seat and stalked majestically out of the room, followed silently by her daughter, who seemed to glide rather than move.
“Rum old party, ain’t she? But she’s good, though, and I like her in my way, you know, the same as she does me,” observed Tom.
“Yes,” said Markworth, neither affirmatively nor in a questioning tone of voice, but with a mixture of both inflections. “Where, however, is that governess you were talking about to me?”
“Oh! Miss Kingscott! ’Pon my soul I don’t know. Let’s go and hunt her up; I have not seen her yet.”
Just then they heard the melancholy notes of an organ in the distance, as they turned into the passage.
“That’s Susan,” observed her brother. “I daresay Miss Kingscott is with her.”
They followed the strains, which grew louder as they penetrated into the back and apparently deserted quarters of the house.
“Here we are,” said Tom, as he opened the door of the room from whence the music proceeded.
A dark, haughty, ladylike girl, clad in rustling black silk, stood up and faced the door as they entered.
“Miss Kingscott, I presume?” Tom asked, bowing politely with his usual frankness.