“My aunt?” repeated Lettice.
“Yes, of course. Your aunt Gertrude, my wife,” he said, with a smile.
“I have never had an aunt before,” said Lettice apologetically.
“Well, you will have one now worthy of the name, though I shouldn’t praise my own belongings,” he said brightly.
In another minute or two the carriage stopped before the door of a handsome house. Mr Morison turned to Lettice.
“Will you wait here, while I go in to explain to your aunt?” he said.
And Lettice, her heart beating more quickly than usual at the thought of this unknown relation, gladly consented.
The explanation must have been quickly made. Before Lettice could have thought it possible, her uncle was back again. There was an orange coloured envelope in his hand.
“This is from Auriol,” he said, taking out its pink paper enclosure, which was as follows: “Bad news of Arthur. Impossible to get away. Beg you to see Downe at once, and decide what to do.” “So, you see,” continued Mr Morison, “my credentials are now quite complete, are they not? Come in, my dear child. There is Gertrude at the door; she is so eager to see you.”
Lettice had no time to feel embarrassed before she felt herself warmly kissed by the lady in mourning, who was waiting to receive her in the hall.