“Yes, Beatrix Helmont, my youngest cousin, is the baby—at least, the youngest sister—and as is often the case, I suppose, very fairly spoilt. I don’t fancy you will take to her as much as to Florence, Miss Wentworth. There is a great deal of good in Florence, though she requires knowing.”
“But she is twenty-three or twenty-four—ever so old, isn’t she?” said Imogen, in a disappointed tone.
“Ye-es, quite that; but still, that is not very old, is it?” and he looked round to Mrs Wentworth to have his opinion endorsed.
Mrs Wentworth, however, had not caught his last remarks.
“Are we close to The Fells now?” she asked, eagerly. “I fancy I remember this part of the way. Don’t we come to the lodge at a turn up that hilly road?”
“Yes,” Major Winchester replied. “What a good memory you have! We are regularly on the Fells now. Take care your wraps don’t blow off.”
They were just turning as he spoke. The road came right out on the moorland, and the wind met them straight in the face—the two in the front, that is to say—Mrs Wentworth was protected.
“Oh, how splendid!” said Imogen. “What delicious air! And what a great stretch of country, and those grim rocks. Are those what you call the Fells, Mr—are you Mr—Winchester?”
“Major,” Rex corrected, smiling. “Yes, Grey Fells Hall is just in front of those rocks, but on the other side. You will see in a minute. The gardens and lawn are over there.”
“Oh, I think it’s delightful! Mamma, you didn’t tell me it was half so nice,” the girl exclaimed.