Her voice faltered a little as she spoke, and the old man glanced at her sympathisingly.
“What a charming girl!” he thought to himself. “Too pretty to be a governess or companion or anything of that kind.”
“I hope,” he said aloud, “that you will be able to keep your daughters with you, Mrs Derwent. I will talk it over with my wife; she has plenty of good sense, and if any idea strikes us, I will write to you. A school—a small, select school, for instance. Your daughters must have been well educated, though, no doubt, private schools do not succeed nowadays as they used to do.”
“Thank you,” said Mrs Derwent; “we must think it over.”
Then they said good-bye, and made their way back to the station again, feeling perhaps a trifle less depressed than on their arrival.
“Shall we stop at the agent’s on our way through Blissmore, do you think, Blanche?” said Mrs Derwent, as they were nearing the end of their railway journey. “We must drive out, I suppose,” she went on, with a rather wan smile, “though I want to begin those small economies at once.”
Blanche glanced at her. It was a hot, close day, and Mrs Derwent seemed very tired.
“It would be poor economy to begin by making ourselves ill,” said Blanche. “Of course we must drive. I will write to the house-agent to-night, if you will tell me exactly what to say, mamma. It will do quite as well as seeing him, and be far less disagreeable.”
Stasy was watching for them at their own gate as they drove up. She looked bright and eager.
“Tell the man not to drive in,” said Mrs Derwent; “we will get out here, poor Stasy looks so anxious to hear what we have got to say.”