While the cloth was being spread, and the maid was moving to and fro from the house, they exchanged information on family matters.
“Diana is almost grown up,” said Cecily, speaking of her sister, whom Mrs. Summers remembered as a child of twelve. “You know she’s been living with Uncle Henry and Aunt Mary since father died?” The softening of her voice, the hesitation with which she spoke his name, reminded Rose of one great grief, at least, through which in her absence her friend had passed. “You will like Diana,” Cecily added after a moment. “Of course you’re going to stay to-night, Rose?”
Mrs. Summers admitted that she was open to an invitation. “When is Robert coming back?” she inquired.
“This afternoon, I think. He was staying last night at his godmother’s—Lady Wilmot, you know.”
The mention of her husband’s name did not, as Rose hoped, lead to confidences. Cecily began at once to inquire the earliest date at which her friend could leave the children long enough for a “proper visit,” and Mrs. Summers was soon driven to make conversation.
“What a ridiculous little world it is!” she remarked, stirring her tea; “I haven’t yet been home a week, and already I’ve run across people I’d lost sight of for years before I left England. Now, on Monday, for instance, I was going to the dressmaker’s when I met a girl I used to know, a girl called Philippa Burton.”
“Philippa Burton!” echoed Cecily, with interest. “Why, I went to school with her. A rather pretty dark girl?”
“Major Burton’s daughter? Yes? How strange!”
“Philippa Burton! How it brings all the schooldays back!” exclaimed Cecily, with a retrospective laugh. “I had no idea you knew her, Rose. When did you meet her?”
“That year I went to Leipzig to study music, you know. She was in the same pension, studying something or other also; I forget what. Affectation, I should think.”