The children darted off across a slippery oak hall, up a flight of stone stairs with a velvety carpet, then along a passage leading to a private staircase with a red baize door shutting it off. It opened into a long low room, still keeping the name of nursery, and at each end were bed-rooms, one for the two girls, the smaller for Bluebell.
"This is such a jolly place," cried Adela, who seemed to have left all her primness at Brighton. "You have never seen the spring woods, nor the amphitheatre, nor the waterfall!"
"Nor the terraces and gardens, nor the menagerie, nor dry pond," added Mabel. "Oh, we could not show you everything in a fortnight. Shall we come out now or after tea? It isn't laid yet. Let us have it out of doors."
Bluebell was almost as eager as the children; and they spent the hot June evening under the trees, listening to bird choruses and the rich solo of a lingering nightingale.
Next morning she was conducted by her pupils round the spring woods, the same walk that Dutton and his cousin had perambulated eighteen months ago. It took just twenty-five minutes to make the circuit, returning to the starting point, marked by a summer-house.
When they had got about half way round, they were met by an old, spare gentlemen, slightly bent. He nodded to the children, spoke a casual word, and mechanically raised his hat to Bluebell. The intensity of her interest gave animation to her countenance.
"That's a pretty girl," thought his Lordship, continuing on his way.
He was in the habit of taking this constitutional every morning before breakfast, sometimes twice round, sometimes once. This day it was twice, and, walking at about an equal pace, the school-room party were passing him nearly on the same spot.
Lord Bromley paused again, said something to the children, and took a second glance at Bluebell.
"You are a young mistress of the ceremonies, Mabel; but why don't you present me to this young lady?"