May again! A later spring this year than last. As Blanche Derwent stood at the window of a house in a broad, airy street, at one end of which the trees of the Park were to be seen, she could scarcely believe it was same time of year, the same date, actually, as the day on which the news of their reversal of fortune had reached her mother at Pinnerton Lodge.
“That was such a lovely summery day,” she said to herself. “I remember it so well; Stasy and I walking home from Blissmore, laughing and talking—I even remember what we were talking about—how Stasy was flattering me;” and Blanche’s colour deepened a little. “And then to find poor mamma as she was when we got home! It was dreadful. And yet, how wonderfully all that side of things has come right! I should be grateful, and I think I am;” but still she gave a little sigh.
Sir Adam had carried out his scheme. He had taken a house in London for a part of the season, and had got his god-daughter and her children with him, excepting Herty, whom it had been thought wiser to leave under Miss Halliday’s care, not to interrupt his lessons.
Just then Stasy joined her sister.
“What are you doing, Blanche?” she said brightly.
“I thought it was against your principles to stand idle at the window. Even though these lovely London streets are delightful to look out on.”
Blanche smiled.
“How you have changed, Stasy! London used to be a synonym with you for everything dreary and miserable.”
“Yes, I daresay. London in November, with a fog, in a horrid hotel, and without a creature to speak to, isn’t exactly the same thing as London in May, in a bright open street like this, and with—really, I must say, everything one could reasonably wish to have.”
“London means a great many things—worlds and worlds of different lives,” said Blanche soberly. “I was just thinking how bare the trees are, Stasy, compared with this time last year;” and she reminded her sister of the date.