They were in Imogen’s room—which was at last ready—doing their best, though without their luggage, to make themselves presentable for luncheon.
“Yes,” said Imogen. “I did, indeed. And I felt very cross with you too, mamsey, for it really was all with you insisting on coming so long before they expected us: it was a stupid thing to do. Trixie allowed that it was, though she’s as nice as can be. She made me feel at home almost at once, I must say.”
“I am so glad,” said Mrs Wentworth, fervently.
“All the same.” Imogen went on thoughtfully, “I think I understand what Major Winchester meant.” Was it fancy, or did a faint, the very faintest pink flush steal over her face at the mere mention of his name?
“How do you mean, darling?” asked her mother. “You seem to have made great friends with this Major Winchester already.”
“Nonsense, mamsey!” said Imogen, not too respectfully, it must be allowed; “he was very kind to us, and of course it was natural for him to tell me a little about the girls, when he saw I was so anxious to know. He likes Florence much the best; but in spite of what he said, I am not sure that I shall. There is a great deal of good in Trixie, I am sure. She has been telling me about herself: she has been spoilt and selfish, she says, and rather wild. And though she didn’t say so, I fancy Miss Forsyth has not had a good influence on her. That’s why I don’t like her.”
“My dear, you must not jump to conclusions so quickly,” remonstrated Mrs Wentworth.
“I’m not jumping more quickly than you, mamma,” Imogen replied. “You have made up your mind that Miss Forsyth is all that is delightful; I only say I don’t think so. I did not at first think I should like Trixie particularly, except that she really met us very kindly. But she seemed to me to have something rather hard about her; only now I understand it.” Imogen paused for a moment, as if thinking out something to herself, and that not with perfect satisfaction—“at least I think I do. They don’t understand her; she wants to be nice and good, I’m sure, but nobody believes her. Major Winchester is dreadfully down upon her, she says; he can’t bear girls who are at all loud, you know, or fast. And poor Trixie has no friend to help her at all. She says she does so hope we shall be friends, mamsey.”
“Yes, dearest, I am sure she will learn nothing but good from you,” said Mrs Wentworth, well pleased. “It is very evident that he appreciates Imogen already,” she added, to herself with a little thrill of maternal pride. “But, darling, we must be quick. I do hope the luncheon bell hasn’t gone without us hearing it, and I’m half afraid I don’t remember the way to the dining-room.”
“We needn’t go straight there,” said Imogen. “Trixie said we should find some of them in the morning-room. You look quite right, mamsey; you do really. But oh dear! I do wish we hadn’t arrived before our luggage and Colman, my boots do clump so. Trixie offered to lend me a pair of shoes, but I could see hers would be too big, so I said I didn’t mind keeping on my boots.”