“Thank you, you are very kind,” said Mrs Derwent, more stiffly; “but my daughters are not delicate, and—”
The only word that caught Mrs Burgess’s ears was the objectionable adjective.
“Of course, of course,” she repeated; “I could see it in a moment. But I’ll tell you what you must do—have the trees thinned. That’s what the Wandles did in their grounds at Pinnerton; they had the trees well thinned, especially at the side of the house, where the children’s windows look out. Mrs Wandle is most kind. I’m sure a word from me, and she’d come to see you and tell you all about it. You don’t know her, of course? Never mind; I’ll ask her to call. You see this is a great tree country, and if you’re not used to—”
“I know all about this part of the country very well, thank you; and I think it particularly healthy. I was brought up here, and we are not the least afraid of Pinnerton being damp,” said Mrs Derwent, in her irritation adding more than she need have done, or had meant to do.
Mrs Burgess, in her eagerness at some volunteered information, had listened with extra attention.
“You were brought up here?” she exclaimed. “Where? Here, at Blissmore?”
“No; at Fotherley,” Mrs Derwent replied, in a sort of desperation, thinking, perhaps, that the best policy would be to tell all there was to tell, and so get rid of this unwelcome visitor. “My father, Mr Fenning, was the vicar of Fotherley, and I lived there with him till a short time before his death. I married abroad, and have never been in England since.”
“Dear, dear, how very interesting!” Mrs Burgess exclaimed. “I have heard the name, Mr Fleming of Fotherley; though, of course, it was before my time.”
“Fenning, not Fleming,” said Mrs Derwent, who had reason for objecting to this mistake.