"That will be Mr. Davis. I wonder what took him to London? we—"
She was interrupted by the entrance of her daughter.
Mrs. Wilson was a much more prepossessing person; she was rather an exaggerated edition of Mrs. Storey—fatter, louder, more gossipping, and less kind-hearted. She was older too; but still, rather pretty and very well dressed. She welcomed Kate cordially enough, and proposed shewing her her room before tea. It was a tiny chamber, but all her own, and Kate was glad of its solitude for a few moments before joining the party below.
When she descended to the dining-room, she found an addition to the circle in the person of the eldest son—a lad about a year older than Pem., thin and fair; his countenance shewed a much higher degree of intelligence than his brother's. He was reading when Kate came in, and looked up to bow, (not to rise) for exactly the space of time necessary for that operation. Pem. was also reading—a newspaper was his study—he seemed to get on with difficulty, constantly snuffling, and elevating his eye-brows, as if vainly attempting to open his small eyes wider than nature intended.
"Now then, Miss Vernon, I am sure you are ready for tea," said Mrs. Wilson. "I ordered you a couple of eggs; you will want something more substantial than a bit of toast after your journey."
Kate silently agreed, longing for a glass of wine after her fatigue of body and mind. However, she took a cup of tea very readily, albeit washy enough.
"Who do you think Miss Vernon travelled down with?"
"Why how should I know, mother?"
"Mr. Davis!"