“I don’t remember, my dear,” said Mr. Ford’s client.
“You’re looking very tired,” said Lady Adelaide, gently; “but about the child. It is Lady Louisa Ammaby’s little girl. You know I met her just before we left Brighton. I only saw the child once, but it is the quaintest, most original little being! So unlike its mother! She and her mother are in town, and they were going out to luncheon to-day I found, so I asked the child here to dine with D’Arcy. Her bonne is taking off her things, and I must go and bring her down.”
As Lady Adelaide went out, her son came in, and rushed up to his father. If Mr. Ford’s client had failed in natural affection for one son, his love for the other had a double intensity. He put his arm tenderly round him, whilst the boy told some long childish story, which was not finished when Lady Adelaide returned, leading Amabel by the hand. Amabel was a good deal taller. Her large feet were adorned with ornamental thread socks, and leathern shoes buttoned round the ankle. Her hair was cropped, because Lady Craikshaw said this made it grow. She wore a big pinafore by the same authority, in spite of which she carried herself with an admirable dignity. The same candor, good sense, and resolution shone from her clear eyes and fat cheeks as of old. Mr. Ford’s client was alarming to children, but Amabel shook hands courageously with him.
She was accustomed to exercise courage in her behavior. From her earliest days a standard of manners had been expected of her beyond her age. It was a consequence of her growth. “You’re quite a big girl now,” was a nursery reproach addressed to her at least two years before the time, and she tried valiantly to live up to her inches.
But when Amabel saw D’Arcy, she started and stopped short. “Won’t you shake hands with my boy, Amabel?” said Lady Adelaide. “Oh, you must make friends with him, and he’ll give you a ride on the rocking-horse after dinner. Surely such a big girl can’t be shy?”
Goaded by the old reproach, Amabel made an effort, and, advancing by herself, held out her hand, and said, “How do you do, Bogy?”
D’Arcy’s black eyes twinkled with merriment. “How do you do, Mother Bunch?” said he.
“My dear D’Arcy!” said Lady Adelaide, reproachfully.
“Mamma, I am not rude. I am only joking. She calls me Bogy, so I call her Mother Bunch.”
“But I’m not Mother Bunch,” said Amabel.