Mr Rothwell’s place is called “The Firs,” from a belt of those trees which shelter the premises on the north.
All is activity at “The Firs” on Twelfth-day morning.
It is just noon, and Mrs Rothwell and her daughters are assembled in the drawing-room making elaborate preparations for the evening with holly, and artificial flowers and mottoes, and various cunning and beautiful devices. On a little table by the grand piano stands a tray with a decanter of sherry, a glass jug filled (and likely to remain so) with water, and a few biscuits. Mrs Rothwell is lying back in an elegant easy-chair, looking flushed and languid. Her three daughters, Jane, Florence, and Alice, are standing near her, all looking rather weary.
“What a bore these parties are!” exclaimed the eldest. “I’m sick to death of them. I shall be tired out before the evening begins.”
“So shall I,” chimes in her sister Florence. “I hate having to be civil to those odious little frights, the Graysons, and their cousins. Why can’t they stay at home and knock one another’s heads about in the nursery?”
“Very aimiable of you I must say, my dears,” drawls out Mrs Rothwell. “Come, you must exert yourselves, you know it only comes once a year.”
“Ay, once too often, mamma!”
“I’m sure,” cries little Alice, “I shall enjoy the party very much: it’ll be jolly, as Mark says, only I wish I wasn’t so tired just now: ah! Dear me!”
“Oh! Child, don’t yawn!” says her mother; “you’ll make me more fatigued than I am, and I’m quite sinking now. Jane, do just pour me out another glass of sherry. Thank you, I can sip a little as I want it. Take some yourself, my dear, it’ll do you good.”
“And me too, mamma,” cries Alice, stretching out her hand.