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“She is very handsome,” interrupted Horace. “I’ll go in and have a peep. I don’t often visit mother.”

If there was a person in the whole world whom Mrs Aldworth respected, it was her stepson. She was, of course, a little bit afraid of him; she was not in the least afraid of her husband. She had led him a sorry sort of life, poor man, since he had brought her home, an exceedingly pretty, self-willed, rather vulgar little bride. Horace and Marcia had a bad time during those early days, but Marcia had a worse time than Horace, for Horace never submitted, never brooked injustice, and managed before she was a year his stepmother to turn that same little stepmother round his fingers. Marcia, luckily for herself, was sent to school when she was old enough, but Horace lived on in the house. He took up his father’s business and did well in it, and was his father’s prop and right hand.

“Horace, dear,” exclaimed Marcia, when she saw her brother.

Horace came out through the open window, bending his tall head to do so.

“Upon my word,” he said, “this is very pleasant. How nice you look, mother, and how well. Marcia, I congratulate you.”

“Horace, she has been reading me such a lecture – your poor old mother. She says that my children are so selfish.”

“A most self-evident fact,” replied Horace.

“Horace! You too?”

“Come, mother, you must acknowledge it.”

“Marcia is going to take them in hand.”

“Good girl, capital!” said Horace, giving his sister a glance of approval.

“Don’t you think we needn’t talk of it just now?” said Marcia. “We don’t see so much of you, Horace. Have you nothing funny to tell mother?”

“I have, I have all kinds of stories. But you look tired, old girl. Run away and rest in the garden for an hour. I’ll stay with mother for just that time.”

Marcia gave him a glance of real gratitude. Oh, she was tired. The invalid was difficult; the afternoon hours seemed as though they would never end.

When she went back again Horace had soothed his mother into a most beatific state of bliss. She told Marcia that she was the best girl in all the world; that she would confide the entire future of her three girls to dear Marcia, that Marcia should train them, should make them noble like herself.

“And I’ll tell them so: I’ll tell that naughty little Nesta to-morrow afternoon. I’ll tell her she must look after me: I’ll be firm; I’ll put down my foot,” said Mrs Aldworth.

Marcia made no response. Another long hour and a half had to be got through and then the invalid was safe in bed, with all her small requirements at hand. She opened her eyes sleepily.

“God bless you, Marcia dear. You are a very good girl, and the joy of my life.”

Chapter Seven
Shirking Duty

Now Nesta was perhaps the naughtiest of the three Aldworth girls. She had been more spoiled than the others, and was naturally of a somewhat braver and more determined nature. She was fully resolved that nothing would really induce her to give up her walk with Flossie Griffiths. Flossie was her dearest friend. Between Flossie and Nesta had sprung up that sort of adoring friendship that often exists between two young girls in that period of their lives. Flossie and Nesta declared that they thought alike, that when a thought darted through the brain of one, it immediately visited the other. Every idea was in common; all their plans were made to suit the convenience of each other. Nesta used to say that Flossie was like her true sister, for her own sisters were of course absorbed in each other.

“There are Molly and Ethel, they are always hugger-muggering,” she used to say. “What should I do but for my Flossie? I am quite happy because I have got my Flossie.”

Therefore, to have to tell her that she could not walk with her, could not confide secrets to her, could not be so much in her company just because there was a tiresome old mother at home, who ought to be nursed by an equally tiresome elder sister, a confirmed old maid, was more than Nesta could brook. She had made up her mind, therefore, what she would do. She would not confide her scheme to her sisters, but after dinner, instead of going to her mother’s room, she would slip out of the house, rush down a side path in the garden, get into the wood, and go off to Flossie’s house. The idea had come into her venturesome brain that morning; but she was quite cautious enough to keep it to herself. She knew well that with regard to such an escapade she would have no sympathy from her elder sisters. They were highly pleased with the complete day of liberty which lay before them. They had planned it delightfully. They were resolved to ask the Carters to have tea with them in the summerhouse at the far end of the garden. They had so often been at the Carters’ house, now it would be their turn to entertain them, and they should have a right good time. They had coaxed Susan, the parlour maid, into their conspiracy, and Susan had proved herself agreeable. She said that hot cakes and several dainty sweets should be forthcoming, and that the two Miss Carters should have as good a tea as she and cook could devise between them.

“But not a word to Marcia,” said Molly, “and for goodness’ sake, not a word to Nesta. She is so greedy that she would be capable of coming down and helping herself to the things in the pantry if she knew.”

Nesta did know, however; for nothing ever went on in that house that she did not contrive to learn all about, but as she herself had a scheme quite ripe for action, she was determined to leave her sisters alone.

“One of them will have to go to mother,” she thought, “and goodness me what a fuss there’ll be. Of course, mother can’t be left alone, and I cannot be got back in a hurry, particularly when Flossie and I’ll be out and away the very minute I get to her house. Marcia is going by train to visit that tiresome Angela St. Just. I heard her telling father so this morning. I wouldn’t be in Molly’s shoes, or in Ethel’s shoes. Yes, it will be Molly’s turn – I wouldn’t be in Molly’s shoes. Dear, dear! What fun it is! It is quite exciting, we live in a continual sort of battle, each of us dodging the others.”

Nesta had to be very careful, and to keep the watchful eyes of her companions from fixing themselves too much on her face.

Marcia came down to lunch that day neatly dressed, with her hat on.

“Did you leave mother to put your hat on?” asked Ethel, in a vindictive tone.

“No, mother helped me to dress. She was most particular. She has very good taste when she likes.”

“She is everything that is good; don’t run her down to us,” said Molly.

They had, it may be perceived, almost dropped the Coventry system. It was tiresome and uninteresting when nobody took any notice of it.

“Nesta, dear,” said Marcia during lunch, “you will be very careful about mother. I think you are going to have a nice afternoon. I have left her so well and comfortable, and so inclined to enjoy herself.”

“Oh, yes,” said Nesta.

“That’s a good girl,” said Marcia. “I see by your face that you are going to make us all happy.”

“I hope so,” replied Nesta.

These remarks would have aroused the suspicions of Molly and Ethel on another occasion, for they would have considered them wonderfully unlike the pert Nesta; but they were absorbed by the thought of their own tea party, and took no notice.

Marcia had to hurry through her lunch in order to catch her train. She told her sisters she would be back about nine o’clock that evening and went away.

“Now, Nesta, it is your turn,” said Molly. “You ought to be going to mother. Do go along and make yourself scarce. Do your duty; it’s no use grumbling. She’s off now for her fill of pleasure, and we cannot get her back. Horrid, mean, spiteful old cat!”

“You can’t be called Miss Mule Selfish for nothing, can you?” said Nesta.

Molly laughed at this.

“Doesn’t it sound funny?” she said. “I’ll tell – ”

She stopped herself. She was about to say that she would tell the Carters, who would keenly relish the joke.

Nesta slipped out of the room. She had already secreted her hat under the stairs. It was soon on her head, and a minute or two later she had dashed down the sidewalk, passed through the wicket gate, and was away through the woods.

The Griffiths lived about three-quarters of a mile away. They were not rich like the Carters, but they had a little house in the opposite suburb of the town, a little house with a fairly big garden, and with woods quite near. Flossie was an only child; she was a great pet with her father and mother, whom she contrived completely to turn round her little finger.

She was standing now at the gate, waiting anxiously for the moment when her darling Nesta would arrive. She and Nesta were to go for a picnic all by themselves to a distant ruin. Flossie was to bring the eatables; Nesta knew nothing of this delectable plan, for Flossie had resolved to keep it a secret all to herself. But now, with her basket packed – that basket which contained tea, milk, sugar, various cakes, a small pot of jam, some bread, and a little pat of butter, as well as a second basket filled with ripe gooseberries – she anxiously waited for her visitor.

By-and-by Nesta was seen. She was running, and looked very untidy, and not like her usually spruce self.

“Dear, dear!” called out Flossie. “How do you do, Nesta? What in the world is the matter? You haven’t put on your best frock or anything.”

“I’m very lucky to be here at all,” said Nesta. “For goodness’ sake don’t speak to me for a minute, until I have got back my breath. I have run all the way, and I am choking – oh, my heart will burst.”

“Lean against me,” said Flossie.

Nesta flung herself against her friend. Flossie was slender and dark, with very curly hair. Nesta was a large girl, built on a generous scale. When she flung herself now against poor Flossie, the latter almost staggered.

“Oh, come,” said Flossie, “not quite so violent as that. Here, let us flop down under this tree. You can take your breath and tell me what it is all about.”

“Oh, I can’t,” said Nesta, who was beginning to recover herself already. “We must be off as fast as possible. Oh, I have had a time of it coming to you. Goodness gracious me, whatever is that?”

She pointed to the tea basket.

“We’re going to Norland’s Cliff, you and I, to have tea all by ourselves. Isn’t it prime? Isn’t it golloptious?” said Flossie.

“Flossie! Has your mother said you might?”

“Yes, yes, of course, she has. I asked her this morning, and she said: ‘Certainly, dear.’”

“But I thought there were donkey races there to-day.”

“There are; but I didn’t say a word about that to mother. She never guessed. Luckily, father was out of the room. It will be much more fun going there to-day, for we’ll see the races; that is if we are quick. But I’m sure, Nesta, I did think you’d come looking a little bit smart, and you’ve got your very oldest hat on too, and that dress.”

“Oh, if you’re ashamed of me,” began Nesta, tears springing to her blue eyes – they could always rise there at a moment’s warning.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, dear,” said Flossie, who was really deeply attached to her friend; “but whatever is it?”

“You must take me as I am, or I’ll go home again if you like,” said Nesta. “It would be much better for me to go home. I wouldn’t get into quite such an awful row as I shall get into all for love of you, if I went home now. I’ll go if you wish. I’ll just be in time to escape the very worst of the fuss. What am I to do, dear?”

“Never mind about your dress. I’d lend you something of mine, only you are twice as big.”

“Well, I’ll carry this basket,” said Nesta, picking up the tea basket. “Now, do let us go; I shan’t have an easy moment until we are well out of sight of the house.”

The girls walked on briskly. They had, for some time, to walk along the dusty road, but soon they came to a stile which led across some fields, delightfully green and inviting looking at this time of the year. The fields led again into a wood, and this wood, by an upland path, came at last to Norland’s Cliff. Norland’s Cliff was the highest point in that part of the country, and on this eminence had once been built by an eccentric Sir Guy Norland, a tower. He had built it as a sort of a vantage tower, in order to see as far round him as possible; but in the end, in a fit of madness, he had thrown himself from the tower, and his mangled body was found there on a certain winter’s night. Afterwards no one had gone near the tower except as a sort of show place; and it was, of course, supposed to be haunted, particularly at night, when Sir Guy Norland was said to ride round and round on horseback.

But it was a beautiful summer day on the present occasion, and the girls thought of no ghosts, and when they were in the shelter of the woods Nesta began to recount her wrongs.

“She has come back, the old spitfire,” she said, and she explained the whole situation.

Flossie was full of commiseration.

“She wanted you to give up your delightful time with me – this Saturday to which we have been looking forward for such a long time – just to sit with your mother?”

“That’s it, Floss; that’s the truth, Floss. Oh, Floss, how am I to bear it?”

“And you ran away then?”

“Yes, I ran away, I just could do nothing else; I couldn’t give up my afternoon with you. It is all very well to talk of filial affection, but the deepest affection of my heart is given to you, Floss.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Flossie, but she did not speak with the intense rapture that Nesta expected.

“Aren’t you awfully, awfully shocked about it all?” said Nesta, noticing the tone, and becoming annoyed by it.

“I am dreadfully sorry that anything should have occurred to prevent your coming to me; but it does seem fair that you should sometimes be with your mother. When my darling old mothery has a headache I like to sit with her and bathe her forehead with eau de Cologne.”

“Oh, that’s all very well,” said Nesta, “and so would I like to sit with my dear mothery, if she only had a headache once a month or so; but when it is every day, and all day long, and all night too, you get about tired of it.”

“I expect you do,” said Flossie, who was not at all strong-minded, and was easily brought round to Nesta’s point of view. “Well, at any rate, here you are, and we’ll try and have all the fun we can. Oh, do look at those donkeys down there, and the crowd of men, and girls and boys. Isn’t it gay?”

“I wonder if we can get into the tower,” said Nesta.

“We must get into the tower,” remarked Flossie. “I have determined all along that we will have tea just on the very spot where Sir Guy threw himself over the wall. I know the very niche. It will seem so exciting to-night when we are dropping off to sleep. I do like to have a sort of eerie feeling when I’m in a very snug bedroom, close to my father and mother, with the door just a teeny bit open between us. I love it. I wouldn’t like it if there was anything to be frightened about, but to know that you have been close to something queer and uncanny, it makes you seem to sort of hug yourself up, don’t you know the feeling, Nesta?”

“I do, and I don’t,” said Nesta. “I sleep in the room with Molly and Ethel, and we always jabber and jabber until we drop asleep. That’s what we do, but we have great fun all the same.”

Flossie gave a faint sigh. They approached the tower; but to their surprise a custodian stood at the entrance and informed the two little girls that this was a very special show day, and that no one could be admitted into the tower under the large sum of twopence. Neither Nesta nor Flossie had brought a farthing with them, and they stood back, feeling dismayed.

“Never mind,” said Nesta, “let us go and have tea in the wood, it will be just as good fun.”

“I suppose it will; only I did want to see the donkey races. Where are the races, please?” continued Flossie, turning to the man.

But here again disappointment awaited them. They would not be allowed within sight of the donkey races without paying a penny each.

“I have heaps of money at home,” said Flossie, “a whole little savings bank of pennies.”

“And I have half a crown which I have not broken into yet,” said Nesta. “It’s too bad.”

“Well, we have an excellent tea, and it is very shady and pleasant in the woods, much better than sitting in your mother’s room, getting scolded,” said Flossie, “so do come along and let us enjoy ourselves.”

Chapter Eight
A Feast to Delight the Eyes

Meanwhile matters were not going on quite so comfortably at the Aldworths’ house. They began smoothly enough. Mrs Aldworth had spent a morning full of perfect happiness, order, and comfort with her eldest daughter. Marcia had done everything that was possible for the well-being of the invalid. She had given instructions also with regard to the food which she was to be supplied with that afternoon, and last, but not least, had not left her, until she saw her enjoying a delicious little dinner of roast chicken, fresh green peas, and a basket of strawberries.

Mrs Aldworth was already beginning to feel the benefit of the change. Until Marcia arrived on the scene she had been, not nursed, but fussed over, often left alone for long hours together to fret and bemoan herself, to make the worst of her trials, and the least of her blessings. Her girls did not mean to be unkind, but they were very often all out together, and the one who was in, was always in a state of grumbling. Now the house seemed suddenly to have the calm and sweet genius of order and love presiding over it. Mrs Aldworth was conscious of the agreeable change, without analysing it too closely. She was glad, yes, quite glad, that dear Marcia should have a happy time with the St. Justs. She knew all about her husband’s first marriage. He had married a penniless girl of very good family, who had been a governess in a nobleman’s house. He had come across her when he was a poor lawyer, before he rose to his present very comfortable position. He had married her and she had loved him, and as long as she lived he had been a very happy man. But Marcia’s mother had died, and Mrs Aldworth was his second wife. She had been jealous of the first wife in a way a nature like hers would be jealous, jealous of a certain grace and charm about her, which the neighbours had told her of, and which she herself had perceived in the beautiful oil portrait which hung in Marcia’s room. She had always hated that portrait, and had longed to turn it with its face to the wall. But these sort of petty doings had gone out of fashion, and the neighbours would be angry with her if they knew. Then her own children had come, and ill health had fallen upon her, and she had sunk beneath the burden.

Yes, she knew all these things. Her past life seemed to go before her on this pleasant summer’s afternoon like a phantasmagoria. She was not agitated by any reminiscences that came before her eyes, but she was conscious of a sense of soothing. Marcia was nice – Marcia was so clever, and Marcia was wise. She was glad Marcia was out. She too would vie with her in being unselfish; she too would become wise; she too would be clever.

She thought of Marcia’s promise, that whatever happened she would visit her for a few moments that evening just to tell her about Angela. Mrs Aldworth, with all the rest of the inhabitants of the little suburb, had worshipped the St. Justs. She had seen Angela occasionally, and had craned her neck when the girl passed by in their open carriage with her aristocratic-looking father by her side. She had felt herself flushing when she mentioned the name. She had been conscious, very conscious on a certain day when Angela had spoken to her. On that occasion it was to inquire for Marcia, and Mrs Aldworth had been wildly proud of the fact that she was Marcia’s stepmother. But Marcia could talk about Angela in the calmest way in the world, evidently being fond of her, but not specially elated at the thought of her friendship.

“I suppose that is called breeding,” thought the good woman. “Well, well, I mustn’t grumble. My own dear children are far prettier, that is one thing. Of course, whatever advances Marcia’s welfare she will share with them, for she is really quite unselfish. Now, I wonder why my little Nesta doesn’t come. I am quite longing to kiss my darling girl.”

Mrs Aldworth was not angry with Nesta for being a bit late.

“It is her little way,” she thought. “The child is so forgetful; she is certain to have to run out to the garden twenty times, or to stroke pussie, or to remember that she has not given old Rover his bone, or to do one hundred and one things which she knows I would be annoyed at if she forgot.”

So for the first half-hour after dinner, Mrs Aldworth was quite happy. But for the next quarter of an hour she was not quite so calm. The sun had come round, and it was time to have the blind rearranged. It was also time for Nesta, who had been given explicit instructions by Marcia, to wheel her mother on to the balcony. Mrs Aldworth felt hot; she felt thirsty; she longed to have a drink of that cold water which was sparkling just beyond her reach. Even the penny paper was nowhere in sight; her fancy work had dropped to the floor, and she had lost her thimble. How annoying of naughty little Nesta – why, the child was already an hour late!

Mrs Aldworth managed in her very peevish way to ring her bell, which was, of course, within reach. The first ring was not attended to; she rang twice, with no better result. Then with her finger pressed on the electric button, with her face very red and her poor hand trembling, she kept up a continued peal until Susan opened the door.

Susan had been busy rushing backwards and forwards to the garden, putting everything in order for the advent of the Carters.

“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” she said. “I am sorry I kept you waiting; but isn’t Miss Nesta here?”

“No, she is not; why didn’t you answer my ring at once?”

“The young ladies, ma’am, are expecting one or two friends in the garden, and I was helping them. I thought, of course, Miss Nesta was with you.”

“She is not; I have been shamefully neglected. Tell Miss Nesta to come to me at once.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Before you go, Susan, please pull down that blind.”

“Yes, ma’am, of course. I am sorry – the room is much too ’ot. Whatever would Miss Marcia say?”

Susan, who was exceedingly good-natured, did all in her power for her mistress; picked up her fancy work, found the thimble, moved the sofa a little out of the sun’s rays, and then saying she would find Nesta in a jiffy and bring her to her mother in double haste, she left the room.

But the jiffy, if that should be a measurement of time, proved to be a long one. When Susan did come back it was with a face full of concern.

“I’m ever so sorry, ma’am, but Miss Nesta ain’t anywhere in the house. I’ve been all over the house and all over the garden, and there ain’t a sign of her anywhere. Shall I call Miss Marcia, ma’am?”

“Nonsense, Susan, you know quite well that Miss Marcia has gone to Hurst Castle. She has gone to see the St. Justs.”

Susan was not impressed by this fact.

“Whatever is to be done?” she said.

“Send one of the other young ladies to me. Send Miss Molly, it is her turn, I think, but send one of them.”

Now this was exactly what naughty Nesta had prophesied would happen, Molly, dressed in a pale blue muslin, which she had made herself, a pale blue muslin with little bows of forget-me-not ribbon all down the front of the bodice, her hair becomingly dressed, her hands clean and white, with a little old-fashioned ring of her mother’s on one finger, was waiting to greet the Carters. The Carters were to come in by the lower gate; they were to come right through the garden and straight along the path to the summerhouse. Ethel was in the summerhouse. She was in white; she was giving the final touches to the feast. It was a feast to delight the eyes of any tired guest, such strawberries, so large, so ripe, so luscious; a great jug of cream, white, soft sugar, a pile of hot cakes, jam sandwiches, fragrant tea, the best Sèvres china having been purloined from the cupboard in the drawing room for the occasion.

“They haven’t china like that at the Carters’, rich as they are,” said Molly.

Oh, it was a time to think over afterwards with delight; a time to enjoy to the full measure of bliss in the present. And they were coming – already just above the garden wall Molly could see Clara’s hat with its pink bow and white bird-of-paradise feather, and Mabel’s hat with its blue bow and seagull’s wings. And beside them was somebody else, some one in a straw hat with a band of black ribbon round it. Why, it was Jim! This was just too much; the cup of bliss began to overflow!

Molly rushed on tiptoe into the summerhouse.

“They’re coming!” she whispered, “and Jim is with them! Have we got enough cups and saucers? Oh, yes, good Susan! Now I am going to stand at the gate.”

The gate was opened and the three visitors appeared. Molly shook hands most gracefully; Jim gave her an admiring glance.

It was just then that Susan, distracted, her face crimson, hurried out.

“Miss Molly,” she said, “Miss Molly!”

“Bring the tea, please,” said Molly, in a manner which seemed to say – “Keep yourself at a distance, if you please.”

“Miss Molly, you must go to the missus at once.”

“Why?” said Molly.

“She’s that flustered she’s a’most in hysterics. That naughty Miss Nesta has gone and run away. She ain’t been with her at all. Missus has been alone the whole blessed afternoon.”

“I can’t go now,” said Molly, “and I won’t.”

“Miss Molly, you must.”

“Go away, Susan. Clara, dear, I’m sorry that the day should be such a hot one, but you will it so refreshing in the summerhouse.”

“You have quite a nice garden,” said Clara, in a patronising voice, but Mabel turned and looked full at Molly.

“Did your servant say your mother wanted you?”

“Oh, there’s no hurry,” said Molly, who felt all her calm forsaking her, and crimson spots rising to her cheeks.

“Oh, do go, please,” said Clara. “Here’s Ethel; she will look after us. Oh, what good strawberries; I’m ever so thirsty! Run along, Molly, you must go if your mother wants you.”

“Of course you must,” said Jim.

“You must go at once, please,” said Clara. “Do go. I heard what the servant said, she was in quite a state, poor thing.”

Thus adjured Molly went away. It is true she kept her temper until she got out of sight of her guests; but once in the house her fury broke bounds. She was really scarcely accountable for her actions for a minute or two. Then she went upstairs and entered her mother’s room with anything but a soothing manner to the poor invalid.

“Is that you, Nesta?” said Mrs Aldworth, who from her position, on the sofa could not see who had entered the room.

“No,” said Molly, “it’s not Nesta, it is I, Molly, and it is not my day to be with you, mother. We have friends in the garden. Please, what is the matter? I can’t stay now, really; I can’t possibly stay.”

“Oh, Molly, oh, I am ill, I am ill,” said Mrs Aldworth. “Oh, this is too much. Oh, my head, my head! The salts, Molly, the salts! I am going to faint; my heart is stopping! Oh, let some one go for the doctor – my heart is stopping!”

Molly knelt by her parent; for a minute or two she was really alarmed, for the flush had died from Mrs Aldworth’s face, and she lay panting and breathless on her sofa. But when Molly bent over her and kissed her, and said: “Poor little mother, here are the salts; now you are better, are you not? Poor mother!” Mrs Aldworth revived; tears rose to her eyes, she looked full at her child.

“You do look pretty,” she said, “very, very pretty. I never saw you in that dress before.”

“Oh, mothery, it is too bad,” said Molly, her own grievances returning the moment she perceived that her mother was better. “It’s that wicked little Nesta. Oh, mother, what punishment shall we give her?”

“But tell me,” said Mrs Aldworth earnestly, “what is the matter? What are you doing?”

“Mother, you won’t be angry – you know you are so fond of us, and we are so devoted to you. Oh, if you would excuse me, and let me go down and pour out tea for them. They are, my dear darling, Clay and Mabel Carter, and we have tea in the summerhouse, and it’s so nice.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs Aldworth, “tea in the summerhouse, and you never told me?”

“It was our own little private tea, mother. We thought it was our day off, and that you wouldn’t want us.”

“And you didn’t want me,” said Mrs Aldworth.

“Oh, mother, it isn’t that we don’t want you, but we do want to have our fun. We can’t be young twice, you know.”

“Nesta said that – Nesta is tired of me, too.”

“We are none of us tired of you.”

“Yes, you are,” said Mrs Aldworth. “You know you are, you are all tired of me; Marcia is right. You may go, Molly.”

At that strange new tone, that look on the invalid’s white face, a girl with a better heart, with any sort of real comprehension of character, with any sort of unselfishness, would immediately have yielded; but Molly was shallow, frothy, selfish, unreliable.

“If you really mean it,” she said – “we could quite well spare Susan.”

“It doesn’t matter; you can go.”

“I’ll send Ethel up presently, mother. It seems so rude just when they have come from such a long way off, in the burning sun and by special invitation. And there is Jim – you know, you always like us to chat with Jim.”

“You can go,” said Mrs Aldworth. “I would not stand in your way for anything. It’s all right.”

The sun was pouring in at the window. Mrs Aldworth’s head was hot, her feet were cold; her fancy work had fallen to the ground; all her working materials were scattered here, there and everywhere, but she rather hugged her own sense of discomfort.

“Go, dear, go,” she said, speaking as gently as she could, and closing her eyes.

“You’d like to have a nap, wouldn’t you?” said Molly, her face brightening. “I’ll put this shawl over your feet.”

“No, thank you, I’m too hot.”

The shawl was wrenched with some force from Molly’s hand.

“Oh, mothery, don’t get into a temper. You are not really vexed with your Molly, are you? I’ll be up again soon. I will, really.”