The maid waited for more discreet directions. She had given a month’s notice that very morning, because she found Craddock Dene too dull.
“Thank goodness, that barbarian is going!” Hubert had exclaimed.
“We shall but exchange a Goth for a Vandal,” his wife replied.
Mrs. Temperley gazed intently at her maid, the light of intelligence gradually dawning in her countenance. “Is there anything else in the house, Sapph—Sophia?”
“No, ma’am,” replied Sophia.
“Oh, tell the cook to make it into a fricassee, and be sure it is well flavoured.” The maid hesitated, but seeing from the wandering expression of her employer’s eye that her intellect was again clouded over, she retired to give the message to the cook—with comments.
The library at the Red House was the only room that had been radically altered since the days of the former tenants, whose taste had leant towards the florid rather than the classic. The general effect had been toned down, but it was impossible to disguise the leading motive; or what Mrs. Temperley passionately described as its brutal vulgarity. The library alone had been subjected to peine forte et dure. Mrs. Temperley said that it had been purified by suffering. By dint of tearing down and dragging out offending objects (“such a pity!” cried the neighbours) its prosperous and complacent absurdity had been humbled. Mrs. Temperley retired to this refuge after her encounter with Sophia. That perennially aggrieved young person entered almost immediately afterwards and announced a visitor, with an air that implied—“She’ll stay to lunch; see if she don’t, and what’ll you do then? Yah!”
The pronunciation of the visitor’s name was such, that, for the moment, Mrs. Temperley did not recognize it as that of Miss Valeria Du Prel.
She jumped up joyfully. “Ah, Valeria, this is delightful!”
The visit was explained after a characteristic fashion. Miss Du Prel realized that over two years had passed since she had seen Hadria, and moreover she had been seized with an overwhelming longing for a sight of country fields and a whiff of country air, so she had put a few things together in a handbag, which she had left at Craddock station by accident, and come down. Was there anyone who could go and fetch her handbag? It was such a nuisance; she laid it down for a moment to get at her ticket—she never could find her pocket, dressmakers always hid them in such an absurd way; could Hadria recommend any dressmaker who did not hide pockets? Wasn’t it tiresome? She had no time-table, and so she had gone to the station that morning and waited till a Craddock train started, and by this arrangement it had come to pass that she had spent an hour and a half on the platform: she did not think she ever had such an unpleasant time; why didn’t they have trains oftener? They did to Putney.