The subject of this encomium is Miss Florence Wynyard, who has run over on a tricycle to luncheon, and who has laid herself out to fascinate the whole family, deeming Nutsgrove extremely comfortable quarters in which to establish herself when affairs are uncomfortable at home.
Florence is the only unmarried daughter of the house of Wynyard. Her mother is a weak-minded peevish old lady, entirely under the dominion of her husband, a gentleman of convivial nature, but extremely uncertain temper, whose periodical attacks of mingled rage and gout render him for the time being fit for a menagerie or a lunatic asylum; hence life at head-quarters is not always very pleasant, and Florence has established for herself a firm pied à terre in some half dozen neighboring houses, whither she can fly at the first paternal growl and remain until the storm has blown over. Within ten minutes after her arrival she determined that Nutsgrove shall ere long be included among her harbors of refuge.
"Yes," she thinks, "I should decidedly like the run of this house."
At a glance she takes in the luxury, the comfort, the freedom, the festive atmosphere that reigns throughout, and easily sees that with judicious management she could twist the simple family round her fingers.
Her demeanor under the critical eyes of her host and hostess is admirable. She is lively, amusing, unaffected, almost ladylike, in fact, the faint ring of "loudness" she can not shake off passing for merely the effervescence of youth, robust health, and good temper. When alone with Pauline and Robert she casts off the mask at once, thus thoroughly fascinating those inexperienced young persons with the full flavor of her "fastness" and the quality and compass of her camaraderie and good-fellowship.
Miss Wynyard is a debonair and not unkindly type of the girl of the period, eminently selfish, but not ill-natured. She is not beyond making a friend of one of her own sex if the conquest is an easy one, but her great object in life is to be "all things to all men," to charm all men of all ages, all classes, all conditions of nature, from the schoolboy to the veteran, from the lord of the soil to the serf. She is successful in an unusual degree, her weapon of attack being one which, when skillfully used, seldom fails, for it tickles the most vital part of male human nature—its vanity. Her list of conquests is inexhaustible, varied, and not altogether creditable to her reputation, if the whispers of the county clubs are to be accepted, which fortunately they are not—very generally at least. For instance, the version of her rupture with Lord Northmouth a week before her marriage—which, rumor said, was owing to that infatuated nobleman's discovering the existence of a correspondence with a good-looking railway-guard at Kelvick Junction—was entirely discredited in the county; and, though Miss Wynyard was certainly left lamenting with seventeen trousseau dresses on hand, not even the most exclusive doors were closed to her on that account, and she wore her brilliant weeds so gallantly, alluding to her recreant fiancé so easily, lightly, and kindly, that in time it came to be pretty generally accepted that she had thrown him over, not he her.
"And you mean to tell me you are not going to the Arkwrights' on Friday, Polly?" she asks incredulously, when the two girls are exchanging confidences, and examining dresses in the seclusion of Pauline's bedroom. "What a shame. I'll soon make that right for you. Susan Arkwright is a connection of mine, you—"
"You are very kind," interrupts Pauline a little confusedly; "but on the whole perhaps it would be better, Flo, not to—to say anything about it. You see, I—I believe there was some misunderstanding or other between our family and theirs in days gone by, and—"
"Misunderstanding? Ha, ha!" breaks in Miss Wynyard, with her frank bold laugh. "That's a good way of putting it, and no mistake! Don't you know, my dear, that Robert the Dev—I mean your father—nearly drove Syd Arkwright to the wall in their soldiering days, and then invited his wife to elope with him? Susan was a very pretty woman a dozen years ago. Misunderstanding indeed! But that's all past and gone now, and it's ridiculous of them to visit it on you—very bad policy indeed. Just as if scores of others in the county hadn't as deep a grudge against your name as they! Polly, what's the matter? Why do you turn away? You absurd child, to mind my chatter! You can't be such an utter baby as not to know what your father was! Why should you mind talking about him with me, your dearest friend, your own Florrie? It it comes to that, you may discuss my old pater's youthful peccadilloes as freely as you like. I dare say they were not more edifying than yours, only he did not wear such a bold front. Your father, my dear, was one of the handsomest, most reckless, and fascinating scamps of his generation. I was just thinking this afternoon if that very good-looking son of his takes to his ways, the husbands, fathers, brothers of Nutshire ought to rise in crusade and drive him from the soil—ha, ha!"