“Yes, I remember,” said Mrs Derwent. “But both she and her cousin have been very good,” continued Stasy. “They have told no one at all till this morning, and then Adela thought it would be only right to let her father know, for our sake, and it was that that she was in such a fright about. She thought we might be vexed.”
“It doesn’t in the least matter who knows and who doesn’t, it seems to me,” said Blanche. “Besides, I have written to Lady Hebe, to tell her I should probably have to give up the guild work, and I made no secret of our troubles. But you’re so mysterious, Stasy: I wish you’d explain! What can it matter about old Mr Bracy knowing?”
“I’m coming to it,” said Stasy, “as fast as I can, if you wouldn’t interrupt. It’s about this house. You know, mamma, you said one day you thought we’d have to sell all our things, and I think anything would be better than that.”
“I’m afraid it will be the wisest thing to do, however,” said Mrs Derwent, rather dejectedly.
“No, mamma, perhaps not,” said Stasy. “What Adela’s father wants to see you about is this. He has a brother who has been out in India for a good many years—a rich man, Adela says—and he’s coming home almost immediately, with his wife and daughter, for a long holiday; and he wants Mr Bracy to find a furnished house close to theirs for a year, and it struck Adela that this might just do. She says they would take great care of everything, and, oh mamma! think how nice it would be to feel it was still ours, in case, you know, of some good luck turning up!”
Her mother smiled.
“My dear child, we mustn’t begin to hope for anything of that kind, I’m afraid,” she said. “It is better to face the reality. Still, no doubt, it would be very nice not to have to part with our things at once. A year from now, we should better know which of these we could keep. It was very kind and sensible of Adela Bracy to think of it, and I shall certainly be very glad to see her father. Can you send him a note to say so, Blanche? It seems to have been a very good thing that we have said nothing yet to the agent.”
“I will write at once,” said Blanche, rousing herself, for she felt that she had been yielding too much to her unusual depression.
She got up from her place and went towards the writing-table as she spoke.
“What’s the name of the Bracys’ house, Stasy—Green?—”