“It isn’t clever to want to know, is it?” he returned. “It’s clever when you do know.”
The cab stopped at last; but Florence would not dismiss it.
“Let it wait,” she said. “Mrs. Bray’s hot rooms will take so much out of me that I shall just want to drop into it when we come out.”
Of course, Lucy had nothing to do but consent. Florence often complained that Lucy held back from mutual expeditions. Little matters of this sort were at the root of Lucy’s reserve. Extravagances always went on which she would never dream of, and though Florence let none of their expense fall upon her, that was not pleasanter for Lucy, since it forced her to accept, as favours, indulgences and luxuries which seemed to her not only unnecessary, but even harmful for two young vigorous women.
The exterior of the house they entered differed little from other pretty residences of its fashionable little quarter, nestled down beside the most aristocratic of our London parks. But once within the door, the house had a character all its own. The pretty little entrance hall was cut across by a broad flight of steps leading to an upper hall, whence the public rooms opened. Of the walls of this upper hall scarcely a quarter of a yard of the middle part remained visible, being thickly covered with old and rare engravings and prints, the interstices between pictures of varied size being filled by bits of blue china and other curios. Even the portion approaching the ceiling was decorated, though more sparsely, by ancient weapons and shields.
A ladylike maid with a pale, tired face admitted them, and led them straight into Mrs. Bray’s presence.
Mrs. Bray was almost the last of the friends of the mother of Florence and Lucy. What was more, she had been that lady’s ideal. The sisters had heard their mother praise her with a warmth in which she had seldom clothed her commendations. They had seen their mother sitting beside Mrs. Bray actually holding her hand! As they advanced to greet their old friend, Lucy remembered the astonishment with which that sight had filled her girlish breast—astonishment, not at Mrs. Bray’s power to charm, but at her mother’s self-surrender to it.
For this was a wonderful old lady. One felt at once that one was in presence of a personality. She rose very slightly to greet them, for she was both aged and feeble. Yet there was something in gesture and countenance which gave assurance of warmest welcome.
“My dear Florence, sit down there where I can look at you, and peep into the world of modern fashion. And my little Lucy, my little truant Lucy, come and sit on this low chair at my side—the very chair your mother always used, my child.”
Immediately the one guest was flattered and the other was gratified, and each was put upon the best footing possible with each nature.