But Blanche was immersed in the newspaper. The outside column of houses to let had caught her eye.
“Mamma,” she said suddenly, “is there more than one Blissmore?” And her fair face looked a little flushed. “If not, it is really a curious coincidence. Look here,” and she held the paper for her mother to see, while she read aloud:
“Shire. Country residence to be let unfurnished, one mile from Blissmore Station. Contains”—and then followed the number of rooms, stabling for three horses, ending up with “quaint and well-stocked garden. Rent moderate. Apply to Messrs Otterson and Bewley, house-agents, Enneslie Street, Blissmore.”
“Otterson and Bewley,” Mrs Derwent repeated. “Who can they be? I don’t remember the name at all. Enneslie Street? Let me see; that was—”
“Never mind about that, mamma dear,” said Stasy, who had brightened up wonderfully as she listened to her sister; “I do feel so excited about this house. It seems the very thing for us. Shall we go down to Blissmore at once to see it? I do hope it won’t be taken.”
“That is not likely,” said Blanche. “It is not everybody that has any peculiar attraction to Blissmore. And just look at the list of houses to let!” she added, holding up the paper as she spoke. “But I do think it would be well to write about it, don’t you, mamma?”
“Certainly I will. And I am glad to know the name of a house-agent, though it seems strange that there should be such a person at a tiny place like Blissmore. I can’t even remember Enneslie Street, though there seems—oh yes, that must be why the name seems familiar. There was a family called Enneslie at a pretty place a short way from Blissmore—Barleymead—yes, that was it. The Enneslies must have been building some houses, I suppose.”
And as soon as the obliging waiter had removed the breakfast things, Mrs Derwent got out her writing materials, and set to work at a letter to Messrs Otterson and Bewley.
It was just a little difficult to her to write anything of a formal or business-like nature in English. For as a young girl, nothing of the kind had been required of her, and since her marriage, though the Derwent family had been faithful to their own language among themselves, all outside matters were of course transacted in French. So Blanche and Stasy were both called upon for their advice and opinion.
“How do you begin in English, when it is to a firm?” said Blanche. “In French it is so easy—‘Messieurs’—but you can’t say ‘Sirs,’ can you?”