"You look sweet in the brown, mother."
"Do I?... But remember what Miss Macdonald says. With my high complexion, I need colour."
Yates soon braced and laced her mistress into the sober brown cloth and velvet that Enid considered suitable for the occasion; a parlourmaid with light rugs went forward to the carriage; and mother and daughter came down the steep and narrow flight of stairs to their outer door.
There was no ground floor to the dwelling-house—or rather the ground floor formed an integral part of the shop. The street door stood in St. Saviour's Court—the paved footway that leads from High Street to the churchyard,—sandwiched with its staircase between the two side windows that contained basket chairs and garden requisites. The court was sufficiently wide and sufficiently pleasant: a quiet, dignified passage of entry, with the peaceful calm of the old church walls at one end, and the stir and bustle of the brilliant High Street at the other end.
Enid and her mamma, following the neat and mincing parlourmaid, made a stately procession to the main thoroughfare, where the really handsome equipage provided by Mr. Young was awaiting their pleasure.
The liveried coachman touched his hat, idle loungers touched their caps, prosperous citizens uncovered and bowed.
"There goes Mrs. Thompson." People ran to upper windows to see Mrs. Thompson start for her Thursday drive.
"There she goes."
"Who?"
"Mrs. Thompson."