"I shall not want my boxes at present, dear; and I would rather go straight to my room," replied Mrs. Worsley, the lady whom Annette called "aunty," though she was no relation to the girl, only her godmother. "But where is the 'reed' aforesaid? Surely she could carry up my dressing-bag, and the odds and ends with which you are overloading yourself."
"The 'reed,' 'Sarah Jane,' by names—and she insists on being called by both—is at this moment engaged in what she calls 'cleaning herself.' The operation occupies most of each afternoon, and is unsatisfactory as regards results. She goes up-stairs with honest black patches about her face, garments, and person generally. She comes down with an appearance of profuse dinginess, which gives you the idea that the black patches have been diluted by the application of water, and thus diffused over a larger surface. Sarah Jane objects to soap, aunty—on her face, I mean—as calculated to injure her complexion. The 'cleaning' process of which she talks so much is, I think, done in chapters, and ought to be continued."
The girl laughed merrily as she deposited her load in the bedroom. Then she brought hot water, undid straps, and paid the welcome guest all the little attentions which thoughtful love could suggest.
"Thank you, darling," said Mrs. Worsley. "You take care that I shall not be conscious of any lack of servants." And drawing the girl's glowing face to her own, she kissed it again and again.
Annette allowed her head to rest on her friend's breast for a few moments. "It is very sweet to be petted now and then," she said, "but I must not stay long now; that would be too selfish. Shalt we have our afternoon tea in the drawing-room or the den?"
"The den, by all means, dear; I will be down in a quarter of an hour," replied Mrs. Worsley.
After glancing round, to convince herself that she had done all in her power for the guest's comfort, Annette went down-stairs and removed the pretty tea equipage from the state room to the smaller one, which the younger members of the family usually occupied. Knowing that no dependence was to be placed on Sarah Jane, Annette had taken care to have everything ready for afternoon tea, in case of callers, and a very few minutes sufficed to arrange a tempting little meal for the tired traveller. Cake and bread-and-butter were already on the table; to these Annette added two or three daintily-cut sandwiches, a couple of peaches, and some cream.
The tea-table stood within a large bay window, one side or which was open, and let in the sweet summer air, laden with the scent of roses. A few flowers were in tiny vases up and down, just a bloom or two amid a mass of variegated ivy leaves, like jewels in a setting of plain gold. The tea equipage was pretty—a harlequin set made up from a collection of fine old china. The kettle in which the water was boiling over a spirit lamp was of massive silver, exquisitely chased, and everything prepared for the visitor's entertainment suggested refinement and loving thoughtfulness.
Yet the room and its furniture were emphatically shabby. Each article had been good and handsome in its day, but the day was many a year back. Even the fine engravings on the walls were in this room because the frames had become too hopelessly dingy to permit of their remaining in what Annette called the state apartments.
As Mrs. Worsley entered the den, she was first struck with its general air of dilapidation, then charmed with the pretty picture presented by that one little nook which held the tea equipage and Annette.