The door opened, and Miss Brabazon came in: a middle-sized, capable, practical young woman of thirty, with a kind, good, sensible face. She was the prop and stay of the house; looking after everything; to the well-being of the large household, to the comfort of her father and of the boys, and to the education of Rose. Her dark hair was plainly braided on her face, and she wore a dress of some soft blue material, with lace collar and cuffs. Crossing over to a side table, she laid down a book she was carrying, and then looked at the address of two letters in her hand, which had just been given her by the postman as she crossed the hall. Miss Rose, all signs of everything unorthodox hidden away, was diligently bending over her studies.
"Is that exercise not done yet, Rose?"
"It is so very difficult, Emma."
"You have been idling away your time again, I fear. Have you practised?" continued Miss Brabazon, glancing half round at the piano.
"Not yet, Emma."
"Have you learnt your French?"
"I've not looked at it."
"What have you been doing?"
Miss Rose Brabazon lifted her pretty face, and shook back her wavy hair from her laughing blue eyes.
"I thought you'd perhaps give me holiday this afternoon, as you were so much occupied upstairs with Lord Shrewsbury and his mother."