“That is all I want you to say, Brenda. Well, what I wish is to go on being kind. You will probably go to London, and I should like to go with you. Until you marry, my dears—and alas! I fear that auspicious event will take place soon with you both,”—here she glanced at Florence, who grew quite red—“until you marry, you will need a chaperone, and who so suitable as me? If you see Mr Timmins, will you mention to him, dears, that I am more than anxious to do for you in the future what I did in the past?”
“Yes, oh yes; we will be sure to say it,” said Florence in a glib tone.
Breakfast went on. Brenda did not attempt to open her letter.
“I wonder why you don’t read what the good man has said,” remarked Mrs Fortescue. “He probably, to judge from the size of that letter, has given you full directions with regard to your future plans. I cannot imagine why he does not write to me.”
“I will read the letter, if you like,” said Brenda in her gentlest voice.
“Do so, dear; I should be so much obliged.”
Brenda opened it. There was a long foolscap sheet which, as far as Mrs Fortescue’s acute vision could discern, was filled with accounts; and then there was a letter. The accounts pleased her, only she was puzzled that they had not been sent to her. Hitherto, she had always been consulted about the dear girls.
The letter was very short, and when Brenda had run her eyes over it, she folded it up and put it back into its envelope, placing the accounts also there for future study.
“Well, well?” said Mrs Fortescue, with great interest.
“Mr Timmins wants us both to go up to London to-morrow to see him.”