The colour flooded the cripple's transparent skin. "Oh, Virgie, Virgie, what is it? Tell me what it is!"
"We'll make it a guessing game," replied Virgie. "I will just go and get on some old things, and we will play it properly. Where's Tony, by the way?"
"Gone with the eleven to play Balchurch. Did you know they have made him twelfth man? He's awfully bucked," said Pansy, with satisfaction. "I don't expect he'll be back yet."
"Oh! Pansy! but how splendid! He's very young, isn't he?"
"Two years younger than the youngest man in the eleven," announced Pansy, with satisfaction. "I'm making him a tie in the school colours." She took up her knitting with pride.
A sound in the hall below struck Virginia's ear. "There's mamma," she said; "I must go and greet her."
Slipping out of the room, she descended the stairs, and entering the tiny drawing-room on the right of the entrance passage, stood face to face with Mrs. Mynors.
It was hard to believe that these were mother and daughter; they looked more like sisters. The elder woman, in coquettish slight mourning, had the same face, broad at the brow, tapering at the chin, the same long lovely eyes, deep-lashed, the same poise of the head and wavy golden-brown hair. A close observer alone would mark differences. The elder woman's eyes were blue, like forget-me-nots—the hard blue that looks so soft, that never varies. Her daughter's were less easy to describe. They were changeful as the sea, responsive to varying skies; and just now, in the waning light, they seemed dark grey.
"Well, my chick, how are you? I was having tea with the Simpsons and forgot the time, or I should have been back before this. You are looking better for your change! I'm glad I persuaded you to go, though we get on pretty badly without you." Passing keen eyes over her daughter's face she seated herself, slightly drawing up her skirt with a motion which intimated that she expected to have her shoes untied.
Unhesitatingly Virginia knelt upon the ground and performed this service. The little room in which they were was a bower of luxury. In it were collected all the relics of their vanished past which Mrs. Mynors had thought herself unable to do without. Silver, miniatures, cushions, foot-stools, a soft couch, an empire writing-table. It was like the tiny boudoir of a rich woman. Its owner cast a disgusted glance about her, as she remarked: "Charwomen never will dust, will they?"