“How nice it was! I wonder if all girls enjoy their first real grown-up party as much,” she thought. “I wonder if Major Winchester will manage the skating.” (For a hard frost had set in somewhat prematurely.) “What fun it would be, only I’m afraid I shall tumble about dreadfully. I wonder,” as another recollection suddenly returned to her mind, “what he meant when he said he wanted to have a little talk with me to-day—to tell me something; it must be something particular, for he whispered ‘Remember about our talk to-morrow,’ last thing. Mother noticed it, but I wasn’t going to tell her all he said; she is so—so fanciful!”
The colour deepened on the girl’s cheeks, alone though she was, as she reached this point in her cogitations. Was it all “fancy” of her mother’s? Could it be that Major Winchester really was?—and remarks of Trixie’s as to the astonishingness of his “making such friends” with a girl of her age, “he who never scarcely speaks to a girl,” returned to her memory in full force. Imogen’s heart beat faster with a sensation of mingled gratification and vague fear. Was “it,” the great “it” of her girl life, really coming to her already? Did all girls feel as she did when such things drew near? It was not what she had expected, somehow: she liked him, liked and respected and trusted him thoroughly, but he seemed so old in comparison with her. And—oh, after all, perhaps it was all nonsense—mamsey was silly about her; all mothers fancy their daughters something wonderful—very likely there was nothing in it; and with a sigh, half of relief, half of disappointment, Imogen threw herself back on her pillows. Would she be glad or sorry if it were all nonsense? she asked herself. And it was not easy to answer.
Her meditations were interrupted by a tap, the gentlest of taps, at the door, and in reply to her “Come in,” Mrs Wentworth appeared. She was all dressed and ready to go down-stairs. Imogen started up.
“Oh, mamsey,” she exclaimed, “I am so ashamed of myself! I had no idea it was so late. Why hasn’t Colman wakened me?”
“I would not let her,” her mother replied, kissing her tenderly as she spoke. “She said you were sleeping so sweetly an hour ago. I tapped very softly, not to wake you in case you were still asleep.”
“But I must jump up now and be as quick as possible,” said Imogen.
“There is really no hurry,” Mrs Wentworth replied. “Indeed, Colman and I were wondering if you would not like your breakfast brought up. I am sure it will be a most irregular meal this morning.”
“Breakfast in bed, and I quite well! Oh dear, no,” said Imogen, laughing. “I will be ready in twenty minutes, at most.”
“But first,” said Mrs Wentworth, “here are two letters for you; at least, a letter and a note,” and she held them out. Imogen seized the former.
“From Dora,” she said. “How nice! Now, when I answer it, I shall have all about last night to tell her. And a note.” She took it and examined it doubtfully. “I don’t know the writing—at least, I’m not sure. I fancy I’ve seen it before—oh yes; I believe it’s Major Winchester’s. What can he have to write to me about, when he’s just going to see me at breakfast?”