“I wish Rex were back,” she said to herself. “And still more I wish he had not left that child in my charge, as he said. What can I do? She gives me no confidence, and she is always with Trixie, just as her silly mother is with Mabella.”
It was true, though the further truth that in those days it was not Imogen seeking Beatrix, but Beatrix Imogen, Beatrix was clever enough to conceal from her elder sister.
“Keep her always in view; for Heaven’s sake don’t let her get confidential with any one else, or it will all be spoilt!” were Mab’s instructions to Trixie.
“She’s not confidential with me; she’s as dull as ditch-water. I’m getting sick of your secret plots and plans that come to nothing,” grumbled Beatrix.
There came a morning, however, when Mabella altered her commands for the day.
“Trixie,” she said, in a low voice, “he—your cousin—is returning this afternoon. His luggage is to be fetched, and he himself is going to walk up from the station. He comes by the 2:15 express. No one is to be told; but I trust to you to let it out to Imogen.”
Beatrix faced round upon her.
“How do you know, if no one is to be told?” she asked sharply. Mabella smiled, a peculiar smile.
“I have ways and means,” she said. “He wrote it to Florence, and I was sitting beside her at breakfast. I knew he would be writing to her when he fixed his return.”
Trixie flamed up; her patience had been over-taxed.