Again Vanna’s lip gave a quick, involuntary twitch.
“Different things. He told me that he had just returned to England, and spoke of foreign countries—his adventures—”
“Oh, but this must be stopped!” Jean shook her head with would-be solemnity. “The Mortons have advertised him sufficiently in advance; he really cannot be allowed to be egotistical on his own account. I shall take him in hand. I shall say to him gently but firmly, ‘My excellent youth, your biography has already run through many editions. Let it rest. Variety is refreshing for mind as well as body. Allow your thoughts to stray for a moment to some one besides your wonderful self. Think, for example, of Me!’”
She waved her hand in dramatic fashion as she spoke, flashing a mischievous glance at her friend, her face a-sparkle with mischief. Jean’s vivid young beauty seemed ever to be asserting itself in fresh phases, so that even those who lived in the same house and looked upon her every day of their lives were continually evoked to fresh admiration. As in watching the movements of an exquisite child, moments of satiety seemed impossibly remote.
Vanna thought with a leaping pulse: “How he will love her!” and smiled back tenderly into the glowing face.
How soon, and in what fashion would the dramatic meeting take place? She was possessed with an immense curiosity to forecast the events of the next few days. Robert Gloucester would not, she was convinced, be content to wait upon chance, but having been vouchsafed a glimpse of his treasure, would not rest until he had furthered the acquaintance. In a light, unsuspicious manner it was evident that Jean’s expectation had also been aroused, for as the visiting hour of the afternoon drew near she displayed an unwillingness to leave the house, donned her prettiest dress, and seated herself in the drawing-room, in what was evidently a waiting mood.
“Put a rose in your belt, Jean. You ought always to wear a rose,” Vanna said, holding out a bowl of fragrant blooms for approval, and Jean obeyed, casting the while a smilingly defiant glance at the angular woman who sat knitting near at hand. If ever the word spinster was written large over a human creature, it was written over Mrs Goring, wife of the genial Philip, and stepmother to his daughter Jean. Yet she was not only a wife, but a mother, and her husband and the two growing schoolboys regarded her with a sincere if somewhat prosaic affection. Jean’s mental position with regard to her stepmother was somewhat more complicated. “I love her with my head, with my judgment, with my conscience; on Sundays, when the sermon is extra good; when she has asthma, and gasps for breath; when the boys are ill, and she looks white and trembly; at other times—no! with my heart—never! We are miles apart, and no bridge is long enough to bring us together. I am her husband’s daughter, so it is her duty to feel an affection for me; she never shirks a duty, so she tries hard morning and evening to love me as she should, and asks forgiveness every night because she can’t manage to do it. I don’t try—because I’m bad, you’ll say; really, because I’m too wise. It’s no use trying to love; but I’m far more obedient and docile than I should be if she were my own dear mother. I should have teased her, and argued, and been cross and perverse—every naughty thing in turn, as the mood took me; and then I should have been sorry, and cried, and she would have forgiven me, and we’d have loved each other harder than ever. But the mater and I never quarrel. That ought to score a great big mark to our credit.”
On the present occasion Mrs Goring justified her character for keeping her temper, for, trying as it was to her practical nature to behold her stepdaughter decking herself with flowers in the afternoon, and idling over a piece of useless crewel work, she made no spoken protest, but contented herself with pursing her thin lips, and clicked her knitting-needles together as she worked.
Presently a visitor was announced, and then another; tea was served, and it was after five o’clock when at last the announcement came for which both girls had been impatiently waiting.
“Miss Morton, Mr Gloucester.”