But she must not linger, but see what was inside. She lifted up the iron knocker, and as it fell the very clang of it, and its echo inside, smote upon her heart with a sensation of strange apprehension. A powdered man opened it, and stared at her with an inquisitive and impertinent look, then saucily asked what she wanted. Flora courtesied low to the servant from perfect terror, saying she wanted to see Mrs Pounteney.
“And what can you want with Mrs Pounteney, young woman, I should like to know?” said the fellow; for Flora neither looked like a milliner’s woman nor any other sort of useful person likely to be wanted by a lady.
Flora had laid various pretty plans in her own mind, about taking her sister by surprise, and seeing how she would look at her before she spoke, and so forth; at least she had resolved not to affront her by making herself known as her sister before the servants; but the man looked at her with such suspicion, and spoke so insolently, that she absolutely began to fear, from the interrogations of this fellow, that she would be refused admittance to her own sister, and was forced to explain and reveal herself before the outer door was fully opened to her. At length she was conducted, on tiptoe, along a passage, and then upstairs, until she was placed in a little back dressing-room. The servant then went into the drawing-room, where sat two ladies at opposite sides of the apartment, there to announce Flora’s message.
On a sofa, near the window, sat a neat youthful figure, extremely elegantly formed, but petite, with a face that need not be described, further than that the features were small and pretty, and that, as a whole, it was rich in the nameless expression of simple beauty. Her dress could not have been plainer, to be of silk of the best sort; but the languid discontent, if not melancholy, with which the female, yet quite in youth, gazed towards the window, or bent over a little silk netting with which she carelessly employed herself, seemed to any observer strange and unnatural at her time of life. At a table near the fire was seated a woman, almost the perfect contrast to this interesting figure, in the person of Mr Pounteney’s eldest sister, a hard-faced, business-like person, who, with pen and ink before her, seemed busy among a parcel of household accounts, and the characteristic accompaniment of a bunch of keys occasionally rattling at her elbow.
The servant approached, as if fearful of being noticed by “the old one,” as he was accustomed to call Miss Pounteney, and in a half whisper intimated to the little figure that a female wanted to see her.
“Eh! what!—what is it you say, John?” cried the lady among the papers, noticing this manœuvre of the servant.
“Nothing, Madam; it is a person that wants my lady.”
“Your lady, sirrah; it must be me!—Eh! what!”
“No, Madam; she wants to see Mrs Pounteney particularly.”
“Ah, John!” said the little lady on the sofa; “just refer her to Miss Pounteney. There is nobody can want me.”