“They are pretty, bright little houses,” said Blanche, not fully understanding her mother’s drift. “But I think, on the whole, I like the old-fashionedness of—”
“Of our house?” Stasy interrupted, clearly showing how the wind was setting in her direction.
Blanche smiled.
“Of our house, best,” she concluded.
“Yes, oh yes, most decidedly,” agreed Mrs Derwent. “But that was not exactly what I meant. I was wondering if the close neighbourhood of this sort of little colony may not be objectionable in any way.”
“I scarcely see how,” Blanche replied. “Of course, they are not the sort of people we should know; but still, these other houses make it less practically lonely. And once you look up all your friends, we shall be quite independent, you see, mamma.”
“Of course,” said Mrs Derwent, and she was going on to say more, when at that moment the sound of a horse or horses’ feet approaching them rapidly, made her stop short and look round.
They were just at the end of the lane. A few yards higher up the road, on the opposite side, large gates, and the vague outline of a small house standing at one side of them, were visible. This was the entrance to the great house—East Moddersham—of which the clerk had spoken with bated breath. The sounds were coming towards where the Derwents stood, from the direction of the town, so, though they naturally turned to look, they in no way associated them with the near neighbourhood of the East Moddersham lodge.
There were two riders—a lady, and not far behind her, a groom. They were not going very fast; the horses seemed a little tired, and were not without traces of cross-country riding through November mud. Still they seemed to go by quickly, and as the first comer—a girl evidently, and quite a young girl—passed, a slight exclamation made both Mrs Derwent and Stasy start slightly.
“Did you speak, Blanchie?” said her sister; and as she glanced at Blanche’s face, she saw, with surprise, that she was smiling.