“Of course, dear, in any case; about such a thing you don’t think I need warning?” said Mrs Wentworth, in a slightly aggrieved tone.
“But—that Miss Forsyth,” said Imogen; “she is so wheedling, and you know you are rather easily taken in, mamsey, dear.”
The adjective and the caressing tone—for Imogen was not given to gush—smoothed down Mrs Wentworth’s ruffled feathers.
“I’ll be very careful, dearest,” she said; and then, at last, she tore herself away, Imogen promising to follow her down-stairs with the utmost possible speed.
It was with a sense of delightful, though almost bewildering, elation that Mrs Wentworth entered the dining-room, where various members of the party staying in the house were lounging over the irregular breakfast. No member of the family was present except Alicia, who half rose to greet her in her usual good-natured, apathetic way.
“Am I not praiseworthy, Mrs Wentworth, for being down so early?” she said.
“Is no one else down?” asked the new-comer, somewhat surprised; for the Helmont energy extended to early rising. “I mean to say, none of yourselves?”
“Oh dear, yes. Father and mother are off on their usual behests, and Florence was down at nine to give our worthy cousin his breakfast. Major Winchester was obliged to go up to town this morning.”
“I know—at least I heard so,” Mrs Wentworth could not resist saying.
“Really!” said Alicia with a glance of surprise. And as Miss Forsyth at that moment came in—“Did you know, Mab, that Rex and Robin went off first thing this morning? Oh yes, by the bye, I believe you and Trixie didn’t go to bed at all, did you?”