When Audrey came down, Irene was putting the finishing stitches to the second shoe. Audrey looked shocked and displeased. "Oh, Debby, how dare you!" she cried, scarcely knowing, in her indignation, what she was saying.
"You should say 'how dare you' to me," laughed Irene, as she returned the thimble and needle to their places. "I asked if I might sew on Debby's buttons, and I used your basket. I hope you don't mind. I haven't done any harm, I think."
Audrey did mind, but she could hardly say so. "I never did know such children," she cried, trying to conceal her vexation. Debby's shoes were decidedly shabby, yet she could not have displayed them more thoroughly. It almost seemed as though she took a pride in their shabbiness. "They never seem able to keep a button on for two days together. I really think they pull them off on purpose."
"Oh, Audrey! I don't, you know I don't. I told you days ago that one was off, and the other one was loose—and then the loose one came off too."
Irene strolled over and looked out of the window. "What a jolly garden," she said, anxious to put an end to the discussion. "I wish we had a large plain piece of grass like that. At grandfather's the turf is all cut up with flower-beds, and one can hardly step for ornamental flower pots—and things. We three never seem able to do anything without damaging something."
Audrey's face cleared a little. "Well, we haven't too many flower beds," she laughed. "In fact, one can hardly call ours a garden. The children play there, and, of course, that spoils it. But, of course, they must have somewhere to play." She had put on her best company manner and grandmotherly speech. "Will you come up now to see mother? Then I think we ought to start. No, Debby, you must stay down, we don't want you." Debby's face fell, but Irene looked back with a smile, which made up for the hurt.
It was a great satisfaction to Audrey that her mother, and her mother's room, were both so dainty and pretty, as she ushered Irene and Daphne in. It was the first satisfaction she had felt that day, so far.
"I have been longing to see you," said Mrs. Carlyle, warmly, kissing them both, "ever since I heard you were so near. I used to know your father when he was a boy, and I am so glad that his children and mine should have met. I hope you will become real friends, dear."
"I hope so," said Irene, her face alight with pleasure. "Did you really know father? I am so glad. Abbot's Field seems so like home, for he told us so much about it, and he loved it so."
"Mrs. Carlyle," broke in Daphne, "did you guess who we were when Audrey told you who she had travelled home with? We told her where we lived; but we didn't know then who she was."