That very same morning, Aunt Hester had a note from the old man to ask if Miss Moore would be kind enough to bring Rachel to tea at his house the following day, at three o’clock. “I will bring her back again myself. Don’t trouble to answer this, because I shall rely upon seeing Rachel at the appointed time.”
Aunt Hester brought the note into the schoolroom, and, after reading it aloud, laughed a little and shrugged her shoulders.
“This is a command,” she said, addressing Miss Moore. “He always gets his own way. Will you see that the child arrives punctually?”
Rachel wanted to jump for joy.
“It’s exactly seven days since the last time I saw him,” she exclaimed. “How exciting!”
Mr. Sheston’s house was tucked away in a little quiet square, near the Museum. It had a narrow front-door with a brass knocker that shone with much polishing, and above it, in the shape of a crescent, panes of glass divided by a tracery in white plaster.
Within, the walls of hall and staircase were panelled with dark wood, and the room into which Rachel followed her host after Miss Moore had left her was, she thought, the nicest she had ever seen.
It had three windows, and was long and low, and like the hall, panelled right up to the ceiling. There were cushioned window-seats, and books everywhere, and great bowls of spring flowers on the tables. And in an old-fashioned grate with hobs, a fire sparkled cheerfully, for it was a cold gloomy afternoon.
Tea was laid on a table in front of the fire, and in a few moments the dearest old woman in a frilled close-fitting cap and a spotless apron, entered, bringing a teapot and a kettle, which she placed on the hob.
