“That is a great pity,” returned Bessie gravely; but politeness forbade her to say more. She was old-fashioned enough to think that disobedience to parents was a heinous offence. She did not understand the present code, that allows young people to set up independent standards of duty. To her the fifth commandment was a very real commandment, and just as binding in the nineteenth century as when the young dwellers in tents first listened to it under the shadow of the awful Mount.
Bessie’s gravely disapproving look brought a mocking little smile to the other girl’s face; her quick comprehension evidently detected the rebuke, but she only answered flippantly:
“Mamma is too much used to my disobedience to give it a thought; she knows I will have my way in things, and she never minds; she is sensible enough to know grown-up girls generally have wills of their own.”
“I think I must have been brought up differently,” returned Bessie simply. “I recollect in our nursery days mother used to tell us that little bodies ought not to have grown-up wills; and when we got older, and wanted to get the reins in our own hands, as young people will, she would say, ‘Gently, gently, girls; you may be grown up, but you will never be as old as your parents—’” But here Bessie stopped, on seeing that her companion was struggling with suppressed merriment.
“It does sound so funny, don’t you know! Oh, I don’t mean to be rude, but are not your people just a little bit old-fashioned and behind the times? I don’t want to shock you; I am far too grateful for your company. Mamma and I thoroughly understand each other. I am very fond of her, and I am as sorry as possible to vex her by getting into this mess;” and here the girl heaved a very genuine sigh.
“And you live in London?” Bessie was politely changing the subject.
“Oh, no; but we have some friends there, and I was going to break my journey and do a little shopping. Our home is in Kent; we live at Oatlands—such a lovely, quiet little place—far too quiet for me; but since I came out mamma always spends the season in town. The Grange—that is our house—is really Richard’s—my brother’s, I mean.”
“The Grange—Oatlands? I am sure I know that name,” returned Bessie, in a puzzled tone; “and yet where could I have heard it?” She thought a moment, and then added quickly, “Your name cannot be Sefton?”
“To be sure it is,” replied the other girl, opening her brown eyes rather wildly; “Edna Sefton; but how could you have guessed it?”
“Then your mother’s name is Eleanor?”