“One at a time, and one is quite enough,” insisted Jane, undaunted.
“If madrina marries Lord Kelmscourt, I don’t see how I can bear it,” Florimel declared. “If, when we thought she was dead, we had heard she was alive and was Lady Kelmscourt, we should have been just as glad and just as excited as we could have been. Of course it would be pretty good fun to say, carelessly, to the other girls: ‘My mother, Lady Kelmscourt, did’ something or other. But it’s not the same when you’ve had her and loved her. There’s no use in my trying to think I’ll enjoy visiting Lady Kelmscourt’s English castle; I may, but what’s that? And I think just as Jane does that madrina will be a—countess, is it? What kind of a lord is Lord Kelmscourt? Madrina knows we can’t have garden parties in the winter, can’t even sit in the garden; she knows there won’t be anything, then, but the house. We like it, but Lord Kelmscourt has a palace, or a castle, or tower, or something. The moment she spoke of Lord Wilfrid’s coming, I said to myself: ‘Farewell, cute little madrina!’”
Mary sang significantly: “‘I have so loved thee, but could not, could not hold thee!’ I don’t see why you should bid her good-bye without waiting to find out whether she is going or not, Mel. She is altogether changed about Hollyhock House—and the Garden girls, for that matter! Perhaps she’ll stay with them. I’m anxious, but when one is anxious, there’s still hope; one isn’t sure of the worst. I’m sure, whatever happens, we shall not lose her, so we’ve got to be reconciled to keeping her as she likes best to be kept. We can’t be without her, really, though we may have to do without her—do you see that? It sounds like a riddle.”
Mrs. Garden came down the steps, humming under her breath, looking so girlish and happy that her children’s faces grew proportionately long.
“I was just writing Lord Wilfrid when he called me on the telephone,” she said. “He is coming, to-night. Do you think his room is as it should be, Mary? Anne says it is, and I hesitate about going to see; she might resent it.”
“Oh, madrina, if Anne says a room is right, there’s no need of any one else giving it a thought!” laughed Mary. “I’ll look at it, and put flowers in it by and by. I don’t know how rooms should be prepared for lords, even though they were once chauffeurs! In novels their rooms, all English rooms, seem to lay no stress on any furniture but a bath—valets bring in baths until one’s back aches. As that room has its bath and dressing-room, I shouldn’t know what other furniture to put into it.”
“If the room is right for Mr. Moulton, for instance, it will be all Lord Kelmscourt could desire,” said Mrs. Garden, smiling at Mary. “Jane, I should like you to drive, when he is to be met; will you, dear? I am going to the station; we’ll all go, but would you mind driving the car?”
“You’re afraid to drive with me, madrina,” Jane reminded her honestly.
“Not so short a distance through these quiet streets. You look so much nicer than Bell on the front seat; your straight young back and shining hair is a pleasanter outlook for a guest than Bell’s outlines. Bell is not a particularly safe driver yet. You don’t mind, Jane?” Mrs. Garden pleaded.
“Not if you are anxious to have Lord Kelmscourt look at the back you like best.” Jane assented so unwillingly that her mother glanced at her, with a laugh in her eyes to see how sullenly Jane’s eyes glowed under her long lashes, and how the corners of her short upper lip pulled down.