The hall-bell rang violently. Lady Wetheral's eyes brightened.—
"Some one has arrived at last to amuse me. I hope it is Penelope come to ask us to her marriage. She ought to do so, for Julia's sake."
The door opened, and Clara entered, to their great astonishment. She seated herself with perfect coolness.
"There," said she, "now let the brute seek me in my father's house!"
"My dear Clara, what brings you to Wetheral?—is Sir Foster with you?—will you dine here?" asked Lady Wetheral, in delighted accents. "I cannot tell you how a little society charms me in this dull place. You have made up that foolish fracas, my love, and you are both come to dine with me: is that it?"
"I am certainly come to dinner, and to sleep too," replied Clara, taking up the work which Christobelle had dropped in surprise. "Where is your thimble, Bell? I will finish this sprig for you."
"But, Sir Foster, my love—where is Sir Foster?"
"I really cannot say: perhaps, kicking the nurse-maids, as I am not at Ripley to stand in their place."
"Are you alone, then, Clara?"
"I hope so. I mean to be alone for some time."