"Hawkesley's coming in this evening," called out Anthony, as they were going through the door.
Adelaide turned. "What did you say, Anthony?"
"Lord Hawkesley's coming. At least he said he would look in for an hour. But there's no dependence to be placed on him."
"We must be in the large drawing-room, mamma, this evening," said Adelaide, as they crossed the hall. "Miss Benyon and the children can take tea in the school-room."
"Yes," assented Mrs. Dare. "It is bad form to have one's drawing-room cucumbered with children, and Lord Hawkesley understands all that. Let them be in the school-room."
"Julia also?"
Mrs. Dare shrugged her shoulders. "If you can persuade her into it. I don't think Julia will consent to take tea in the school-room. Why should she?"
Adelaide vouchsafed no reply. Dutiful children they were not—affectionate children they were not—they had not been brought up to be so. Mrs. Dare was of the world, worldly: very much so: and that leaves very little time upon the hands for earnest duties. She had taken no pains to train her children: she had given them very little love. This conversation had taken place in the hall. Mrs. Dare went upstairs to the large drawing-room, a really handsome room. She rang the bell and gave sundry orders, the moving motive for all being the doubtful visit of Viscount Hawkesley—ices from the pastrycook's, a tray of refreshments, the best china, the best silver. Then Mrs. Dare reclined in her chair for her after-dinner nap—an indulgence she much favoured.
Adelaide Dare entered the smaller drawing-room, an apartment more commonly used, and opening from the hall. Julia was reading a book just brought in from the library. Miss Benyon was softly playing, and the two little ones were quarrelling. Miss Benyon turned round from the piano when Adelaide entered.
"You must make tea in the school-room this evening, Miss Benyon, for the children. Julia, you are to take yours there."