“I don’t know, I’m sure. Florence is out. I daresay Alicia’s resting: she generally is at this time of day.”
“And every other,” thought her cousin.
“What mischief in Heaven’s name is the girl up to now?” he went on to himself. Then half shocked at his suspiciousness he glanced at her sharply: she had not anticipated this and her eyes fell. “I knew it could not be sincere,” he thought, with a curious mixture of regret and satisfaction.
“I knew Florence was out,” he said aloud.
“But before hunting up mamma or Alicia, had I not better take our guests to the morning-room?” said Beatrix prettily.
And Rex could not oppose so natural a suggestion.
Mrs Helmont was not in the morning-room. Truth to tell, she had dedicated the hours before luncheon to-day to some necessary household discussions with her upper servants.
“The Meldons will have gone, and the Wentworths not coming till nice and late in the afternoon,” she had said to herself with satisfaction; “all the other people can be left to themselves—not like strangers.”
So that, in spite of her really friendly feelings to the mother and daughter—her own peculiar guests indeed—it can easily be understood that the announcement of their premature arrival was not a joyful one in her ears.
“Come!” she repeated to the maid who had disinterred her and the old housekeeper in the linen-room, where she was really enjoying herself, “you don’t say so. At this time of day! it is too provoking. My cap is all on one side, I’m certain, and we were just getting into the new pillow-cases, Baxter. The girls will be so put out too. And Florence gone for me to Culvey! Alicia is sure to be asleep. I must go—it will all have to stand over, Baxter; you must put everything back again,” and with a very natural sigh the poor lady prepared to descend to the morning-room.