Mr. Wilton had opened the Times, and was not attending to the chatter of the young folk.
"You don't look quite the thing, Ermie," said Basil in a low voice.
"I'm perfectly well," she replied.
"But you turned quite white that time at the lodge. I noticed it. That time when Marjorie wanted you to get out. Have you been worrying yourself lately? You know you are such a girl to mope, and make mountains out of mole-hills. School would be the place for you."
Mr. Wilton dropped his paper.
"Are you recommending school for Ermengarde?" he said. "Sometimes I have thought of it, but your mother had a prejudice against school-life for girls, and Ermie does very well with Miss Nelson and the masters who come here to instruct her. Now here we are, and here's your Aunt Elizabeth."
Miss Wilton was not a graceful woman. She was a feminine edition of her brother, and Mr. Wilton, although handsome as a man, had by no means the type of face which best lends itself to womanly graces.
Miss Wilton was standing on the steps in a riding-habit. Her horse had just been taken round to the stables. She had her whip in her hand, and her masses of hair looked untidy—her face, too, was flushed.
"Really, Roderick," she said to her brother, "that groom is past bearing. He had the impertinence—— Oh, is that you, Basil? So you've come back—how are you? Now one thing I do beg, and that is, that you never come into the house except by the side door, and that you and Eric keep your pets to yourselves. I don't mind what is done behind the schoolroom doors, but I will not—I cannot—permit messy lounging school-boys in my part of the house. Roderick, what is the matter? Are you laughing at me?"
"I think I am, Elizabeth," replied Mr. Wilton. "Boys will be boys, and no one can accuse Basil of lounging."