“It would be easier for me that you should not know first. But just tell me this. Is Mrs Hungerford really coming to-day?”
“Yes,” said Honora, in some surprise; “but I didn’t even know that you knew her.”
“I don’t really. Paulie was telling me about her last night, and how delighted she was at the thought of seeing her. When will she come, Nora?”
“Oh, I think by quite an early train; she’ll be here probably about twelve o’clock.”
“Nora, do you think I might drive into Marshlands quite early, that is, immediately after breakfast? I want to see my sister Brenda.”
“Of course you may. Oh, how white you look! I trust you are not going to be ill!”
Penelope whispered to her own heart: “It’s only the pain that the crown gives, and I don’t mind that sort.” She said aloud, in almost a cheerful voice: “No, I’m not going to be ill,” and presently Honora left her.
Then Penelope rose and dressed and ran downstairs. She went into the garden, which was always fresh and beautiful. Once or twice she put her hand to her forehead, as though she would feel the crown and those thorns that pierced her brow and were so sweet and sustaining.
Breakfast was ready at the usual hour, and the children were gay and happy—the little Hungerfords wild with delight at the thought of seeing their mother, and Mary L’Estrange and Cara Burt were full of sympathy with regard to Penelope who, they thought, looked particularly nice that morning.
“I am so glad you have got over your headache,” said Mary.