“Better show it to the governor before you send an order to view,” replied the other.
Mr Otterson, senior, looked dubious.
“Send particulars and an order,” he said, “but mention that no negotiations can be entered upon without references. We must be careful: this school is bringing all sorts of impecunious people about the place.”
So the reply which found its way to the private hotel in Jermyn Street, though, strictly speaking, civil, was not exactly inviting in its tone.
Mrs Derwent read it, then passed it on to her elder daughter. She felt disappointed and rather chilled. They had been looking for the letter very eagerly, for time hung somewhat heavy on their hands. They had no one to go to see, and very little shopping to do, owing partly to their still deep mourning. And the noise and bustle of the London streets, even at this dead season, was confusing and tiring; worst of all, there was an incipient fog about still, as is not unusual in November.
“What do you think of it?” said Mrs Derwent, when Blanche had read the letter.
“It is dear, surely,” said Blanche. “Let me see—one hundred and twenty pounds; that is, three thousand francs. I thought small country-houses in England were less than that.”
“So did I,” her mother replied. “Still, we can afford that. Of course, if it had not been for my own money turning out so much less than was expected, we could have bought a little place, which would have been far nicer.”
“I don’t know that,” said Blanche. “At least, it would not have been wise to buy a place till we had tried it. And you have still a little money, mamma, besides what we get from France. We shall have quite enough.”
Mrs Derwent’s “own money,” inherited from her father, had been unwisely invested by him; when it came to be realised after his death, it proved a much less important addition to Henry Derwent’s income than had been anticipated.