“Oh, and there is Penfold Rectory not very far off—and a very nice man there, though too ‘broad’ for Winifred. He tells me he’s going to have some people staying with him—a Mr. Sorell, and a young musician with a Polish name—I can’t remember it. Mr. Sorell’s going to coach the young man, or something. They’re to be paying guests, for a month at least. Mr. Powell was Mr. Sorell’s college tutor—and Mr. Powell’s dreadfully poor—so I’m glad. No wife, mercifully!
“Anyway, you see, there are plenty of people about. Do come.
“I am, dear Constance,
Your affectionate aunt,
MARCIA RISBOROUGH.”
“Now what on earth am I going to do about that?” said Constance, tossing the letter over to Annette.
“Well, Mr. and Mrs. Hooper are going, cook says, to the Isle of Wight, and Miss Alice is going with them,” said Annette, “and Miss Nora’s going to join them after a bit in Scotland.”
“I know all that,” said Constance impatiently. “The question is—do you see me sitting in lodgings at Ryde with Aunt Ellen for five or six weeks, doing a little fancy-work, and walking out with Aunt Ellen and Alice on the pier?”
Annette laughed discreetly over her knitting, but said nothing.
“No,” said Connie decidedly. “That can’t be done. I shall have to sample Aunt Marcia. I must speak to Uncle Ewen to-morrow. Now put the light out, please, Annette; I’m going to sleep.”
But it was some time before she went to sleep. The night was hot and thunderous, and her windows were wide open. Drifting in came the ever-recurring bells of Oxford, from the boom of the Christ Church “Tom,” far away, through every variety of nearer tone. Connie lay and sleepily listened to them. To her they were always voices, half alive, half human, to which the dreaming mind put words that varied with the mood of the dreamer.
Presently, she breathed a soft good night into the darkness—“Mummy—mummy darling! good night!” It was generally her last waking thought. But suddenly another—which brought with it a rush of excitement—interposed between her and sleep.