“Of course. Pamela must join the Shakspere class. Mrs. McAlpine, my dear, who started it, is extremely clever—she reads German novels in the original. And she is very particular—they only read the nice parts of the plays. I inquired into that when Nancy joined. For although one admires and loves dear Shakspere, I must say one is never sure of him. It seems such a pity. Are we free on Thursday, Nancy?”
“I usually go round with the Parish Magazines, mamma—it is the third Thursday in the month.”
“So it is. And Friday is unlucky. I don’t believe in such nonsense, of course, but it is as well not to run unnecessary risk. And Saturday, that is no day at all.”
“I usually give out stores on Saturday, mamma.”
“Then we’ll say Monday. No, Tuesday—that will give us time to make a cake. I must ask some more of your relations to meet you, dear. And, Nancy, we must be careful with the cake; Maria’s are always so excellent, and she is so critical. And now run out, dear, and tell Evergreen I’ll come in a moment. I’m afraid he won’t like being kept in the mist.”
On Tuesday Jethro, who was driving into Liddleshorn, dropped Pamela at Turle. She stood and watched him out of sight, admiring the smartly turned-out trap and his broad back in the light covert coat. Then she went, with lagging feet, up the drive.
Turle was an old house which had been improved into an appearance of juvenility. Mr. Turle bought it when he retired with a comfortable fortune from the milling—a comfortable fortune, and a determination on the part of his wife—to end his days as a gentleman. He spent so much money that people forgot that he had been a miller. When he died his widow was actually on the skirts of small gentrydom. She was a diplomatic woman, and managed to steer fairly clear of family connections who were still in superior family trade. She drove her social four-in-hand skillfully, and kept several distinct sets in perfect balance, smiling on them all with the same motherly, expansive sweetness, yet never offending the aristocratic susceptibilities of Mrs. Sugden, the Paper King’s wife, who called on her twice a year, nor hurting the feelings of the Jeremy Crisp girls, whose father still carried on the family grocer’s business in Liddleshorn.
Pamela liked Turle. The farm-buildings were hidden, the surrounding meadows had been knocked into a miniature park and planted with trees. They were young trees, but everything must have a beginning.
When she was announced she saw that the big drawing-room was full of strange women. She looked hurriedly from one face to another, finding family characteristics everywhere. Mrs. Turle kissed her.
“You don’t look quite up to the mark,” she said affectionately. “A touch of bile?”