“She looks nothing but English,” said Lady Markham in a sort of parenthesis.
“The only people I know are English,” said Frances. “Papa is not fond of society. We see the Gaunts and the Durants, but nobody else. I have always tried to be like my own country-people, as well as I could.”
“And with great success, my dear,” said her mother with a smiling look.
Mrs Clarendon said nothing, but looked at her with silent criticism. Then she turned to Lady Markham. “Naturally,” she said, “I should like to make acquaintance with my niece, and hear all the details about my dear brother; but that can’t be done in a morning call. Will you leave her with me for the day? Or may I have her to-morrow, or the day after? Any time will suit me.”
“She only arrived last night, Caroline. I suppose even you will allow that the mother should come first. Thursday, Frances shall spend with you, if that suits you?”
“Thursday, the third day,” said Mrs Clarendon, ostentatiously counting on her fingers—“during which interval you will have full time—— Oh yes, Thursday will suit me. The mother, of course, conventionally, has, as you say, the first right.”
“Conventionally and naturally too,” Lady Markham replied; and then there was a silence, and they sat looking at each other. Frances, who felt her innocent self to be something like the bone of contention over which these two ladies were wrangling, sat with downcast eyes confused and indignant, not knowing what to do or say. The mistress of the house did nothing to dissipate the embarrassment of the moment: she seemed to have no wish to set her visitors at their ease, and the pause, during which the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece and the occasional fall of ashes from the fire came in as a sort of chorus or symphony, loud and distinct, to fill up the interval, was half painful, half ludicrous. It seemed to the quick ears of the girl thus suddenly introduced into the arena of domestic conflict, that there was a certain irony in this inarticulate commentary upon those petty miseries of life.
At last, at the end of what seemed half an hour of silence, Lady Markham rose and spread her wings—or at least shook out her silken draperies, which comes to the same thing. “As that is settled, we need not detain you any longer,” she said.
Mrs Clarendon rose too, slowly. “I cannot expect,” she replied, “that you can give up your valuable time to me; but mine is not so much occupied. I will expect you, Frances, before one o’clock on Thursday. I lunch at one; and then if there is anything you want to see or do, I shall be glad to take you wherever you like. I suppose I may keep her to dinner? Mr Clarendon will like to make acquaintance with his niece.”
“Oh, certainly; as long as you and she please,” said Lady Markham with a smile. “I am not a medieval parent, as poor Con says.”