“It is a good thing he never married again; he would have been very obstinate.”
“But why do you say never did?—as if he never would. He is only forty-odd.”
“Only forty-odd!” laughed Ethel—“only a million. If a man is over eight-and-twenty he might as well be over eighty; it is mere modesty that he is not.”
“Walter is over thirty, and just as fascinating as ever.”
Florence was rather indignant.
“Ah, yes, but he is married, and married men take such a long time to grow old. By the way, Mr. Fisher said something about a theatre-party, when his mother is here. Do you think I might ask him to invite George Dighton as well? George is very fond of theatres.”
Before Florence could reply, a carriage stopped at the door; it looked familiar, it reminded her of Aunt Anne in her triumphant days. But a strange lady descended from it now, and was shown upstairs to the drawing-room, in which Aunt Anne had sat and related her woes and known her triumphs.
“Mrs. North, ma’am,” said the servant; and then Florence understood.
She left Ethel in the dining-room with the inventory, and went up to receive the visitor. Mrs. North was as pretty as Aunt Anne had declared her to be; a mere girl to look at, tall and slim. Florence thought it was quite natural that her husband should like her to have a chaperon.
“I came to see Mrs. Baines,” she said, coming forward in a shy, hesitating manner, “but hearing that she was in the country I ventured to ask for you. What have you done with the dear old lady?” and she laughed nervously. Florence looked at her, fascinated by her beauty; by her clothes, that seemed to be a mixture of fur and lace and perfume, by the soft brown hair that curled low on her forehead, by the sweet blue eyes—by every bit of her. “She told you, probably, that she was very angry when she left me; I know it has all been very dreadful in her eyes; but she was always kind to me, and I thought by this time that she would, perhaps, forgive me and make it up; so I came.” She said it with a penitent air.