“You absurd child, who ever put such ideas into your mind?” said her mother, looking at her with fond pride.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Imogen replied, with a little coquettish toss of her head; “I think a lot of things, and then you know, in books mamsey, too often men who seem very nice are really dreadful tyrants or something horrid after they’re married.”
“Well, darling, there shall be choice care taken as to whom we give you to,” said her mother. “I daresay it won’t be the first comer, nor the second, nor third whom I shall think worthy of my Imogen.”
“I wonder when he will come,” thought the girl to herself, but she did not express the thought. She only smiled and blushed a little at her mother’s words.
“Tell me more about the Helmonts, mamsey,” she said. “You have been there once, didn’t you say?”
“Yes, but only for a day or two, not long before your dear father and I went out to India,” said Mrs Wentworth with a little sigh. “I don’t remember it very distinctly—it was a great big house, an ideal country-house for a large merry party. Of course, a good many of the young people were not grown up then—there was a baby if I remember rightly. Oh yes, the youngest daughter Beatrix, so she must be only a year or so older than you, darling. How very odd that Mrs Helmont and I have children so nearly of an age, when she might really be my mother!” and Mrs Wentworth gave the little self-complacent laugh she often indulged in when her comparative youth, or youthful appearance, was alluded to.
“How delightful!” exclaimed Imogen, ignoring entirely, though with no intention of disrespect, her mothers last sentence. “How delightful that there should be one daughter, anyway, of my age. There are lots older, I suppose?”
“Two, if not three, married, and three at home,” Mrs Helmont said. “In her letter this morning you see she speaks of Florence as hoping to do all she can to make your visit pleasant. Florence—can that be the youngest daughter? I have such a remembrance of the baby being Beatrix, because I thought it such a pretty name; and when you were born I wanted to call you by it, but your dear father would have Imogen. I’ve always thought it rather an eccentric name, but some people like it. I always forget who Imogen was exactly, and it looks so foolish. I must read up about it, or her, again.”
“Oh, bother, never mind about my name, mamsey. Go on about the Helmonts. I daresay Florence is the youngest. You often muddle about people’s names, you know, mamsey dear. And there are lots of sons, too, I suppose?”
“Oh dear, yes; but remember, dear, I don’t think I want you to fall in love with any of them. They won’t be particularly well off, except the eldest one, and he, of course, not till his father’s death.”