“Your hair is a great deal prettier than mine,” said Gussy, putting her caressing arm round her mother’s neck. “I like that silver shade upon it. Hair gets so sweet when it gets grey—one loves it so. If you had not thought so much about us all, mamma dear, and had so many worries, you would not have had a white thread. I know it is all for us.”
“Hush! my dear,” said Lady Augusta; “you are all very good children. I have not had half so many worries as most people. It is in the family. The Hightons all grow grey early. You were looking very nice to-night. That blue becomes you; I always like you best in blue. Did you dance with Edgar Arden more than once, Gussy? I could not quite make out——”
“Only once, mamma.”
“How was that? He was waiting for us to come in. I suppose you were engaged to half-a-dozen people before you got there. I don’t like you to do that. If they don’t come for you at the proper moment you are kept from dancing altogether, and look as if you were neglected; and if they do come, probably somebody else has made his appearance whom you would like better. I don’t approve of engaging yourself so long in advance.”
“But one goes to dance,” said Gussy, with humility; “and to tell the truth, mamma, Mr. Arden likes looking after you quite as much as dancing with me. He likes to see that you are comfortable, and have some one pleasant to talk to, and don’t want for anything. And I like him for it!” the girl cried, fervently. “He is of more use to you than Harry is. I like him because he is so fond of you.”
“Nonsense, dear!” said Lady Augusta, with a pleased smile. “He is good to me on your account. And you must not say anything against Harry. Harry is always a dear boy; but he has a number of friends, and he knows I don’t expect him to give up his own pleasure. Yes; Edgar Arden is very nice; I don’t deny I am getting quite fond of him. Did he—had you any particular conversation with him, my darling, to-night?”
“No, mamma,” said Gussy, with her eyes cast down, and a rising colour on her cheeks.
“Or perhaps he is coming to-morrow? Did he say anything about coming to-morrow?” said Lady Augusta, with a little anxiety in her tone.
“He asked me if he might, but I said no. I thought we would be in such confusion—everything packing up, and all our shopping to do, and so much bother—and then probably when he came nobody at home. And you know, mamma, we shall meet again so soon—next week,” said Gussy, apologetically. As she spoke she began to feel that perhaps that little bit of maidenly reluctance had been a mistake; and Lady Augusta shook her head.
“My dear, I don’t think putting off is ever good,” she said. “When you have lived as long as I have you will know upon what nothings the greatest changes may turn. If he had come to-morrow, one needed no ghost to tell us what would have happened—but next week is a different thing, and the country is a different thing from town. There are seven miles between Arden and Thorne—there is Clare at the other end to hold him back—there are a thousand things; whereas, the present moment, you know—there is nothing like the present moment in all such affairs.”