“Your feet are so tiny; just the least little atom longer than mine,” said her mother, with an amusing mixture of admiration and self-complacency. “And mine were always spoken of as quite extraordinary. Your dear father used to wonder how I could walk upon them.”
“Well, in India that didn’t matter much, as nobody ever does walk—not what I call walking,” Imogen remarked.
And thus chattering, with the real though unavowed motive of keeping up their courage and keeping down their shyness, the mother and daughter slowly descended the great wide shallow-stepped staircase which led to the hall.
Chapter Five.
The Duties of Hospitality.
They heard voices in the direction of the morning-room, so thither they turned their steps. The morning-room opened at one side into the large dining-room, on the other into the library. The doors of communication between all these were now open, and bright fires were burning in each. To Imogen, at the first glance, it seemed as if the rooms were filled with people, for the moving about and laughing and talking that were going on had a confusing effect upon her; she had scarcely time to do more than glance round her bewilderedly when the luncheon gong sounded, and universal making for the door ensued.
“Stay behind with me, and then we can sit together,” said some one beside her, and turning round, Imogen saw Beatrix at her elbow. But at the same moment, another voice reached her.
“Excuse me, Trixie,” it said; “you are forgetting that Miss Wentworth has not yet made acquaintance with your sisters. It is hardly my business to introduce you and your guest,” he added, with a smile to the girl beside him.