“Ah, yes, the boys.” It was Mr. Crimble’s little dilemma all over again: Lady Pollacke was evidently wondering whether I knew she knew I knew.
“But still,” I continued cheerfully, “it is the looker-on that sees most of the game, isn’t it?”
Her eyelids descended, though her face was still lifted up. “Well, so the proverb says,” she agreed, with the utmost cordiality. It was at this moment—as I have said—that she invited me to tea.
She would come for me herself, she promised. “Now wouldn’t that be very nice for us both—quite a little adventure?”
I was not perfectly certain of the niceness, but might not Mr. Crimble be a fellow-guest; and hadn’t I an urgent and anxious mission with him? I smiled and murmured; and, as if her life had been a series of such little social triumphs, my visitor immediately rose; and, I must confess, in so doing seemed rather a waste of space.
“Then that’s settled: Thursday afternoon. We must wrap up,” she called gaily through her descending veil. “This treacherous month! It has come in like a lamb, but”—and she tugged at her gloves, still scrutinizing me fixedly beneath her eyelids, “but it will probably go out like a lion.” As if to illustrate this prediction, she swept away to the door, leaving Mrs. Bowater’s little parlour and myself to gather our scattered wits together as best we could, while her carriage rolled away.
Alas, though I love talking and watching and exploring, how could I be, even at that age, a really social creature? Though Lady Pollacke had been politeness itself, the remembrance of her bonnet in less favourable surroundings was still in my mind’s eye. If anything, then, her invitation slightly depressed me. Besides, Thursday never was a favourite day of mine. It is said to have only one lucky hour—the last before dawn. But this is not teatime. Worse still, the coming Thursday seemed to have sucked all the virtue out of the Wednesday in between. I prefer to see the future stretching out boundless and empty in front of me—like the savannas of Robinson Crusoe’s island. Visitors, and I am quite sure he would have agreed with me, are hardly at times to be distinguished from visitations.
All this merely means that I was a rather green and backward young woman, and, far worse, unashamed of being so. Here was one of the greatest ladies of Beechwood lavishing attentions upon me, and all I was thinking was how splendid an appearance she would have made a few days before if she had borrowed his whip from her coachman and dispersed my little mob with it, as had Mrs. Stocks with her duster. But noblesse oblige; Mr. Crimble had been compelled to consider my feelings, and no doubt Lady Pollacke had been compelled to consider his.
The next day was fine, but I overslept myself and was robbed of my morning walk. For many hours I was alone. Mrs. Bowater had departed on one of her shopping bouts. So, whoever knocked, knocked in vain; and I listened to such efforts in secret and unmannerly amusement. I wonder if ever ghosts come knocking like that on the doors of the mind; and it isn’t that one won’t hear, but can’t. My afternoon was spent in an anxious examination of my wardrobe. Four o’clock punctually arrived, and, almost as punctually, Lady Pollacke. Soon, under Mrs. Bowater’s contemplative gaze, I was mounted up on a pile of cushions, and we were bowling along in most inspiriting fashion through the fresh March air. Strangely enough, when during our progress, eyes were now bent in my direction, Lady Pollacke seemed copiously to enjoy their interest. This was especially the case when she was acquainted with their owners; and bowed her bow in return.
“Quite a little reception for you,” she beamed at me, after a particularly respectable carriage had cast its occupants’ scarcely modulated glances in my direction. How strange is human character! To an intelligent onlooker, my other little reception must have been infinitely more inspiring; and yet she had almost wantonly refused to take any part in it. Now, supposing I had been Royalty or a corpse run over in the street. … But we were come to our journey’s end.
Brunswick House was a fine, square, stone-edged edifice, dominating its own “grounds.” Regiments of crocuses stood with mouths wide open in its rich loam. Its gateposts were surmounted by white balls of stone; and the gravel was of so lively a colour that it must have been new laid. Wherever I looked, my eyes were impressed by the best things in the best order. This was as true of Lady Pollacke’s clothes, as of her features, of her gateposts, and her drawing-room. And the next most important thing in the last was its light.
Light simply poured in upon its gilt and brass and pale maroon from two high wide windows staring each other down from between their rich silk damask curtains. It was like entering an enormous bath, and it made me timid. In the midst of a large animal’s skin, beneath a fine white marble chimneypiece, and under an ormolu clock, the parlourmaid was directed to place a cherry-coloured stool for me. Here I seated myself. With a fine, encouraging smile my hostess left me for a few minutes to myself. Maybe because an embroidered fire-screen that stood near reminded me of Miss Fenne, I pulled myself together. “Don’t be a ninny,” I heard myself murmur. My one hope and desire in this luxurious solitude was for the opportunity to deliver my message to Mr. Crimble. This was not only a visit, it was an adventure. I looked about the flashing room; and it rather stared back at me.
The first visitor to appear was none but Miss Bullace, whose recitation of “The Lady’s ‘Yes’ ” had so peculiarly inspirited Fanny. She sat square and dark with her broad
