The lovely face was aglow with tenderness: it was easy to see that the maternal instinct was strong in Jean’s heart, and that she would rise to her fullest height as wife and mother. The next moment she raised herself, flashed an anxious look at Vanna’s face, and deftly turned the conversation.
“Well, anyway you’ll see for yourself that Mrs Rendall’s a trial. When she and Miggles get started, don’t interrupt—let them have it out by themselves. Piers loves to listen, and so do I.”
The next day an old-fashioned barouche bore the three ladies over several miles of hilly roads to the square white mansion where the widowed Mrs Rendall lived in peaceful seclusion from the world. After the style of old-fashioned houses, it was situated in a hollow, sheltered from the wind, but also cut off from a view of the surrounding country. The entrance hall was bleak and uninteresting, the rooms, so many big square boxes, furnished with Early Victorian heaviness, and an astonishing absence of individuality. Vanna counted eleven little tables in the drawing-room, each bearing a weight of senseless ornaments. On the marble chimney-piece a pair of red glass “lustres,” a pair of Parian marble figures, male and female, were mathematically arranged on each side of a Bohemian glass centre-piece, bearing a medallion portrait of a simpering brunette. A bannerette of crimson cross-stitch, on which was worked a cluster of steel-bead roses, hung pendant from a brass rod; the water-colour paintings on the walls were encircled by large white mounts; the drab carpet was garlanded with flowers; in the air was the sweet, somewhat musty flavour of potpourri. Mrs Rendall wore a large widow’s cap on the top of a small grey head, and was the sort of woman who is instinctively connected with a shoulder-shawl and mittens. It was difficult to imagine her the mother of the handsome man with the bright, irritable-looking eyes, who stood by her side to welcome the guests on their arrival.
The dining-room was a distinct improvement on the drawing-room, as is invariably the case when the mistress of the house is devoid of taste. The mahogany furniture was solid and purposeful, and the family portraits on the red flock walls added an air of richness to the prevailing comfort. The table itself was beautifully spread with the finest of napery and some treasured pieces of old family silver. Six specimen glasses were set at equal distances, each bearing a head of geranium and a spray of maidenhair fern; two white-capped maids stood stiffly at attention.
“Piers, my dear,” said Mrs Rendall primly, “will you ask a blessing?”
During the progress of the first course the conversation was general and futile. The party was too small to allow of separate conversations: the young people seemed inclined to allow their elders to lead the way, and as one old lady seemed determined to cling tenaciously to one subject, and the other to dash continually to pastures new, the result was something confusing. Vanna felt the pressure of Jean’s foot on her own, and received a twinkling glance of amusement. “Now!” said the glance as plainly as words could speak. “The fun’s beginning. Let them have it to themselves.”
“No! I never disturb my borders,” announced Mrs Rendall firmly. “Neither bulbs nor perennials. My gardener says—”
“But you remember the Totteridges!” Miggles interrupted, insistently smiling. “Emily Mackintosh. She married the son of the old man, Rev. Totteridge, Vicar of Newley. My sister Susan was bridesmaid. Pink taffetas. All the go. He went out to India and was killed by a tiger. Poor Emily! You know their garden. That border by the church wall—”
“My gardener says—”
“Emily always divided the bulbs. Some people leave them for three years. Our old landlord over at Sutton—did you know the Dixons? Charming family! They used to come over and play croquet with us at my old home. The second son was a dear fellow, but stuttered. So sad when a man stutters. What was I saying, dear? I do wander! Oh, yes! Old Mr Dixon moved them every autumn—”