Mrs. Mainwaring looked amused at the girl's energy, but before she could reply there were quick, decided footsteps in the outer room, and the next moment a tall, dark woman in walking-dress entered.
When Waveney rose from her chair, the lady looked at her with extreme surprise.
"Miss Ward, I suppose;" and her manner was a little brusque. "Please sit down again, and I will speak to you directly. Aunt Sara, may I have the carriage, please. Morris says the horses are quite fresh. I find the letter that I expected is at the Red House, so it will be better for me to talk it all over with Althea."
"Do as you like, Doreen," returned Mrs. Mainwaring, tranquilly; "but you must attend to this young lady first, you know;" and then Miss Harford took a seat near Waveney.
The girl was suffering from a sense of painful disillusion. Mrs. Mainwaring's talk had given her a favourable idea of Miss Harford, but when she saw her, her first thoughts were "What a grievous pity that such a good woman should be so plain!" But the next moment she added, "Plain is too mild a term; she is really quite ugly;" and it could not be denied that Dame Nature had treated Miss Harford somewhat churlishly.
Her figure was angular, and a little clumsy, and not even her well-cut tailor-made tweed could set it off to advantage. Her features were strongly marked, and her complexion sallow, and her low forehead and heavy eyebrows gave her rather a severe look. She could not be less than forty, probably a year or two over that, but there was no affectation of youth, either in dress or manner.
Perhaps the only point in her favour was a certain frankness and sincerity in her expression that, after a time, appealed to people; and yet her eyes were a light, cold grey. Strangers seldom took to her at first—her quick, decided manners were rather too brusque, and then her voice was so harsh and deep; but they soon found out that she was to be trusted, and by-and-by they grew to love her.
Doreen Harford always spoke of herself as the "ugly duckling," who would never change into a swan in this world.
"I never do anything by halves," she would say, laughing, and her laugh was as fresh and ringing as a child's, though, perhaps, a little hard. "I am as ugly as they make them, my dear,"—for she was too happy and busy a woman to fret over her lack of beauty, though she adored it whenever she found it, and petted all the pretty children and animals.
"There's Aunt Sara," she would go on, "is she not like one of Watteau's Shepherdesses? Did you ever see anything so fine and pink and dainty?—and she is seventy-three. She has had lovers by the score, and she was only a young woman when General Mainwaring died; but she would never marry again, bless her!"