"Marjorie, I've met the new man."
"What man?" Marjorie, sitting in the garden, looked up from the polishing of her poem at her visitor, a girl of about her own age, the Dean's only child.
"The man from Blackton. He dined with us last night. I made father ask him in the train. Oh—don't think I did it out of charity," she said, laughing. "He was staying at Oldstead—you know we've been there. Orme, you cherub! what cheeks you've got!" and she caught up the three-year-old and kissed him.
"He'll spoil your grand frock," cautioned Marjorie. "They've been making mud-pies in their hovel."
"Pies," said Orme, wriggling down from Charity's knee, and dragging at her hand; nor desisting, till she got up to accompany him.
Marjorie looked after her brilliant friend, who was adored by all the Bethune children in turn, until they reached the age of nine; after which their admiration congealed. Soon, she turned her thoughts again to her labour. It was difficult making sonnets, in her busy life. She had to snatch moments when she could.
"Of course, 'lone' would rhyme with 'atone,'" she murmured; "but it is so obvious. Love doesn't want a crowd—I gathered that from mother. Have you done your sonnet, Charity?" as the other girl ran back and sat down again, Orme and Ross following in pursuit, as fast as their fat legs would allow.
"My sonnet? Not I! I've been basking in the Duchess's smiles and wearing my new frocks. She asked after you; she didn't know you'd got back. I put on this new one to show you, Marjorie."
"You look very silvery and cloudy," Marjorie said. "It suits you, but it wouldn't stand much work."
"Neither should I. Oh, Marjorie—hateful word! Don't distil Mrs. Lytchett. I was forgetting Mr. Pelham. He sings divinely—a sort of baritony tenor, that floats, and melts—I can't describe it. What stupids we've all been about him!"