“I believe they think she’s a vulgar, fussy old thing like Agnes Gale’s aunt,” I said to myself; “never fit to be seen till the afternoon.”
“It won’t disturb her at all,” I said. “Mamma is never very busy.”
And just as I spoke I heard her voice from the drawing-room.
“Connie dear,” it said, “where are you, and what’s the matter with the drawing-room?” Oh, how glad I was that she said that! “Benjamin said some one wanted me;” and then catching sight of figures in the conservatory, in mamma came.
They started a little, and no wonder that they were surprised. Thanks to me, they had small reason to expect much in Mrs Percy. Never in all my life did I feel prouder of mamma, or more grateful for her unfailing sweet temper. Just think—many a mother in such a case would have come through the drawing-room scolding for finding it in such a mess; her voice would have been heard sharp and angry before she was seen. And many, even sweet-tempered women, would have been upset and flurried. Not so my dear little mother. She came in looking so sweet, and so neat and pretty—with just a little half-smile of amusement on her face. “What is the matter, Connie dear?” she repeated, and then she caught sight of the strangers.
I flew to her side.
“Mamma dear,” I said—I was not often so gentle, but I was humbled for once—“it is Captain Whyte and Miss Whyte. It is all my fault about the drawing-room. I would not let Eliza finish it, because she was in the way when I was doing the flowers.”
Then mamma glanced at me, and I saw that she had to make some effort not to look vexed at the state I myself was in.
“My dear child!” she exclaimed. But in an instant she was shaking hands with our visitors.
“I am so sorry,” she said.