called Renny.
She opened the door.
“You’re wanted downstairs. My grandmother wants to see you. And what do you suppose she brought me? A train that winds up and runs right across the room! And a music box for Meggie! Come and see!”
He caught her by the hand, with a warmth he had never before shown and dragged her through the door.
“You smell!” he exclaimed.
“Of what?” she demanded startled.
“It’s nice,” he said, and tugged at her again.
He was still holding her hand when they entered the drawing-room. That close grasp gave her strength. Anxiously she looked about her, seeking the figure of Mrs. Whiteoak.
But there was no need to seek. Her vigorous presence caught and held the eye, though all those in the room, save one, were strongly individual, and even he, Sir Edwin, was far from insignificant, if only because of his contrast to the others. Mary had expected to see an old woman but, at sixty-eight, Adeline Whitoak might have passed for fifty had it not been for her clothes, which were of a massive cut, and the fact that she wore a lace cap with ribbons on her head. The cap was wired to give it body. It also added to her look of imperiousness. There was little of grey in her hair which still retained a hint of russet. Her handsomely-cut aquiline features, her expressive brown eyes, her fine teeth, brought an admiring shine into Mary’s own eyes. Above all, she was smiling and Mary smiled in return.
“How do you do, Miss Wakefiled.” She held out her hand and Mary’s hand was enfolded in it. Renny still gripped the fingers of the other.
“Come,” he persisted, “come and see my train.”
It seemed to Mary that at least a dozen voices ordered him to be quiet.
“I hope you are getting on well,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “I hope you are able to put some knowledge into the children’s heads.”
“I’m trying hard.” Mary’s voice was scarcely audible.
“I think I must be getting deaf.” Mrs. Whiteoak cupped her ear in her palm. “I can’t hear you.”
“I’m getting on nicely, thank you.” Now her voice came clearly and, she felt, a little too loud.
Meg spoke up. “We haven’t had lessons lately. It’s too hot.”
Her grandmother’s bright glance discovered her. “There are other things besides lessons,” she said.
“What other things?” asked Renny.
“Behaving yourself. Does Miss Wakefield make you behave?”
He gave a peal of laughter.
“Is there a party or something?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak, looking Mary over.
Her dress! She should not have put on that gay dress! She felt ready to sink through the floor.
Ernest Whiteoak now came forward. His expression was faintly apologetic, though whether to his mother or to her, Mary could not guess. But he shook hands kindly.
“It seems quite a long while,” he said, “since I interviewed you, on behalf of my mother.”
“And saw Miss Wakefield through your mother’s eyes, I’ll be bound,” added Mrs. Whiteoak. She turned to Mary.
“How old are you, my dear?”
“Twenty-four.”
“H’m. That quite tallies with my son’s description of you. He said you were — youngish, that your hair had not gone grey and that you had your own teeth. Well — so have I and I’m sixty-eight.”
Mary was too confused to be certain whom Mrs. Whiteoak was making fun of. She stood looking down at the older woman fascinated.
Renny had run off and joined Meg with their toys in the sitting-room.
“Now I had better introduce you all round,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, “Nicholas, Augusta, Edwin — Miss Wakefield. Miss Wakefield — Mr. Whiteoak, Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.”
The tall dark gentleman with the moustache who was standing by a window talking to Philip, smiled pleasantly and bowed. Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley inclined their heads without smiling.
“Where are the children?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak.
“They’ve taken their toys to the library,” answered Philip.
Mrs. Whiteoak gave an imperious wave of the
She opened the door.
“You’re wanted downstairs. My grandmother wants to see you. And what do you suppose she brought me? A train that winds up and runs right across the room! And a music box for Meggie! Come and see!”
He caught her by the hand, with a warmth he had never before shown and dragged her through the door.
“You smell!” he exclaimed.
“Of what?” she demanded startled.
“It’s nice,” he said, and tugged at her again.
He was still holding her hand when they entered the drawing-room. That close grasp gave her strength. Anxiously she looked about her, seeking the figure of Mrs. Whiteoak.
But there was no need to seek. Her vigorous presence caught and held the eye, though all those in the room, save one, were strongly individual, and even he, Sir Edwin, was far from insignificant, if only because of his contrast to the others. Mary had expected to see an old woman but, at sixty-eight, Adeline Whitoak might have passed for fifty had it not been for her clothes, which were of a massive cut, and the fact that she wore a lace cap with ribbons on her head. The cap was wired to give it body. It also added to her look of imperiousness. There was little of grey in her hair which still retained a hint of russet. Her handsomely-cut aquiline features, her expressive brown eyes, her fine teeth, brought an admiring shine into Mary’s own eyes. Above all, she was smiling and Mary smiled in return.
“How do you do, Miss Wakefiled.” She held out her hand and Mary’s hand was enfolded in it. Renny still gripped the fingers of the other.
“Come,” he persisted, “come and see my train.”
It seemed to Mary that at least a dozen voices ordered him to be quiet.
“I hope you are getting on well,” said Mrs. Whiteoak. “I hope you are able to put some knowledge into the children’s heads.”
“I’m trying hard.” Mary’s voice was scarcely audible.
“I think I must be getting deaf.” Mrs. Whiteoak cupped her ear in her palm. “I can’t hear you.”
“I’m getting on nicely, thank you.” Now her voice came clearly and, she felt, a little too loud.
Meg spoke up. “We haven’t had lessons lately. It’s too hot.”
Her grandmother’s bright glance discovered her. “There are other things besides lessons,” she said.
“What other things?” asked Renny.
“Behaving yourself. Does Miss Wakefield make you behave?”
He gave a peal of laughter.
“Is there a party or something?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak, looking Mary over.
Her dress! She should not have put on that gay dress! She felt ready to sink through the floor.
Ernest Whiteoak now came forward. His expression was faintly apologetic, though whether to his mother or to her, Mary could not guess. But he shook hands kindly.
“It seems quite a long while,” he said, “since I interviewed you, on behalf of my mother.”
“And saw Miss Wakefield through your mother’s eyes, I’ll be bound,” added Mrs. Whiteoak. She turned to Mary.
“How old are you, my dear?”
“Twenty-four.”
“H’m. That quite tallies with my son’s description of you. He said you were — youngish, that your hair had not gone grey and that you had your own teeth. Well — so have I and I’m sixty-eight.”
Mary was too confused to be certain whom Mrs. Whiteoak was making fun of. She stood looking down at the older woman fascinated.
Renny had run off and joined Meg with their toys in the sitting-room.
“Now I had better introduce you all round,” said Mrs. Whiteoak, “Nicholas, Augusta, Edwin — Miss Wakefield. Miss Wakefield — Mr. Whiteoak, Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley.”
The tall dark gentleman with the moustache who was standing by a window talking to Philip, smiled pleasantly and bowed. Sir Edwin and Lady Buckley inclined their heads without smiling.
“Where are the children?” demanded Mrs. Whiteoak.
“They’ve taken their toys to the library,” answered Philip.
Mrs. Whiteoak gave an imperious wave of the
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