“A fair amount,” said Evelyn, “but I have got it pretty well planned. I didn’t write on purpose, for fear of making you think you must come back.—Yes, of course Duke wants me to go”— She sighed deeply. “You don’t know how I dread it!”
“I can imagine it,” said Philippa. “What a pity you and I can’t be mixed together, Evey; I should enjoy it of all things. The sort of adventure about it, you know.”
“Just what terrifies me,” said Mrs Headfort plaintively. “And as if I didn’t realise only too fully how terrible it is, Duke writes pages and pages of warnings and instructions and directions, and heaven knows what! down to the minutest detail. If he had known more about the fashions, he would have told me exactly how my dresses were to be made, and my hair done—”
“He might have saved himself the trouble as to the last item,” said Philippa, consolingly. “You never have been and never will be able to do your hair decently, Evelyn.”
Mrs Headfort’s pretty face grew still more dejected in expression.
“I really don’t think you need be such a Job’s comforter, Philippa,” she said, reproachfully, “just when mamma and I have been longing so for you to come home. Duke didn’t write about my hair, so you needn’t talk about it. What he did write was bad enough, and the worst of all is—”
“What?” said Philippa.
Chapter Two.
“What?” said Philippa.
“He says,” replied Mrs Headfort, glancing round her—“dear me, where is his letter? I would like to read it to you. I must have left it up-stairs.”
“Never mind,” said her sister, with a touch of impatience. Evelyn’s belongings were rather apt to be left up-stairs or down-stairs, or anywhere, where their owner happened not to be at the moment. “Never mind about it, you can read it to me afterwards; just tell me the gist of it just now.”