“Oh, how could you?” laughed Emma, turning her beaming face upon Oliver. And they might have gone on for ever, if left alone; but Mr. Paul reminded his daughter that it was growing late, and he wanted to get home to dinner. So she lightly stepped into the low chaise, Oliver Preen assisting her, and they drove off, Emma calling to Jane not to forget that they were engaged to drink tea at North Villa on the morrow.
“What’s Preen going to do with that young fellow?” wondered the lawyer, as he drove on.
“I’m sure I don’t know, papa,” said Emma. “Take him into the Buttery, perhaps.”
Old Paul laughed a little at the idea. “Not much more work there than Preen can do himself, I expect.”
“When I last saw Jane she said she thought her brother might be coming home. It may be only for a visit, you know.”
Old Paul nodded, and touched up the pony.
Oliver stood in the pathway gazing after the chaise until it was out of sight. “What a charming girl!” he cried to his sister. “I never saw one so unaffected in all my life.”
II
If the reader has chanced to read the two papers entitled “Chandler and Chandler,” he may be able to recall North Villa, and those who lived in it.
It stood in the Islip Road—hardly a stone’s throw from Crabb Cot. Jacob Chandler’s widow lived in it with her three daughters. She was empty-headed, vain, frivolous, always on the high ropes when in company, wanting to give people the impression that she had been as good as born a duchess: whereas everyone knew she had sprung from small tradespeople in Birmingham. The three daughters, Clementina, Georgiana, Julietta, took after her, and were as fine as their names.