“It was much jollier sitting up in our armchairs over the fire,” said Mabella, carelessly. She did not look the least tired or fagged.
“Give me a cup of coffee, won’t you, Alicia? It’s such a time since I had breakfast, I feel ready to begin again.—And how is the fair Imogen, Mrs Wentworth? You yourself look brilliant,” she added.
Mrs Wentworth smiled graciously.
“Thank you,” she said; “Imogen is very well, very well indeed. She will be down directly. She would have been down already, but she had—we had some rather important letters this morning.”
Miss Forsyth drew her chair a little closer to her dear Mrs Wentworth’s.
“Nothing wrong, I trust?” she said in a low voice. “No, you could not look as you do if it were. Really, dear, there are times, and this is one of them, when, I cannot take in that you are Imogen’s mother—you do look so ridiculously young. If there is anything—any business matter—I can be of use about, you will tell me, won’t you?”
“You are so kind, dear Mabella,” murmured Mrs Wentworth vaguely.
“Let us take our work and go and sit in the large conservatory after breakfast, and have a good cosy talk,” the girl went on. “Imogen is sure to be—oh no, I forgot; Major Rex is off there will be no one especially to claim her this morning.”
Mrs Wentworth closed her lips in a peculiar way but did not reply. Just then Trixie came in, like a whirlwind, as usual, but looking very handsome.
“Where’s Imogen?” she exclaimed. “We’re going to skate—Noll and I and one or two others—and she said she wanted to learn. Is she still asleep?”