Some ladies in a carriage bowled past her; the ladies bent forward, bowed, and smiled.
"Why, that is Frances Kane," they said one to another. "How good of her to call—and this is one of Aunt Lucilla's bad days. If she will consent to see Frances it will do her good."
Frances walked on. The avenue was considerably over a mile in length. Presently she came to smaller gates, which were flung open. She now found herself walking between velvety greenswards, interspersed with beds filled with all the bright flowers of the season. Not a leaf was out of place; not an untidy spray was to be seen anywhere; the garden was the perfection of what money and an able gardener could achieve.
The avenue was a winding one, and a sudden bend brought Frances in full view of a large, square, massive-looking house—a house which contained many rooms, and was evidently of modern date. Frances mounted the steps which led to the wide front entrance, touched an electric bell, and waited until a footman in livery answered her summons.
"Is Mrs. Passmore at home?"
"I will inquire, madame. Will you step this way?"
Frances was shown into a cool, beautifully furnished morning-room.
"What name, madame?"
"Miss Kane, from the Firs. Please tell Mrs. Passmore that I will not detain her long."
The man bowed, and, closing the door softly after him, withdrew.