id="pgepubid00005">“What?” said Philippa.

“He says,” replied Mrs Headfort, glancing round her—“dear me, where is his letter? I would like to read it to you. I must have left it up-stairs.”

“Never mind,” said her sister, with a touch of impatience. Evelyn’s belongings were rather apt to be left up-stairs or down-stairs, or anywhere, where their owner happened not to be at the moment. “Never mind about it, you can read it to me afterwards; just tell me the gist of it just now.”

“If you mean by that the most perplexing part of it, I was just going to tell it you when you interrupted. Duke says I must take a maid. He says his cousins would never get over it—be too scandalised for words, if I arrived without one. Such a state of things could never occur to them, even though they knew how poor we are!”

“Naturally enough,” said Philippa, “even if Duke hadn’t spoken of it, I am sure we should have thought of it ourselves. And I don’t see any such tremendous difficulty about it.”

“I might have managed it in another way,” said Mrs Headfort, “if they had invited Bonny, for then I could have taken nurse, and—well, without saying what wasn’t true—let it be supposed that I didn’t want to bring two servants. And nurse would really have done all I need fairly well.”

“But they haven’t asked Bonny? And I suppose you can’t volunteer to take him?”

“Oh, dear, no,” Evelyn replied, gazing vaguely around her again, as if by some magic her husband’s letter could have found its way down to the table beside her. “That’s just what Duke says. Bonny, you see, Philippa, is the crux. Bonny must not be obtruded. Duke lays great stress upon that, and, of course, my own sense would have told me so if he hadn’t. Oh, no, of course I can’t take nurse and Bonny, even if you and mamma could have accepted the responsibility of Vanda without nurse.”

“Of course that would have been all right with Dorcas,” said Mrs Raynsworth. “I have suggested Evelyn’s taking Dorcas, Philippa, but—”

“It would never do,” said Evelyn, hastily. “I’m sure you’ll say so, too, Philippa. That’s one reason I’m so glad you’ve come back. Do tell mamma it would never do.”

“Honestly, I don’t think it would,” said Philippa. “To begin with, one’s never sure of her rheumatism not getting bad—and then, though she’s the dearest old thing in the world, the wildest flight of imagination couldn’t transform her into a maid.”

“I was sure you would say so,” said Mrs Headfort. “You see, mamma dear, everything is so different from all those years ago when she was your maid.”

“Dorcas herself is different, certainly,” Mrs Raynsworth agreed, “and no wonder when you think of all she has done for us, and made herself into for our sakes,” and she sighed a little. “But otherwise, maids when I was young, I assure you, had to be quite as competent as nowadays.”

“Of course,” said Philippa, detecting the tiniest touch of annoyance in her mother’s tone, “Evelyn didn’t mean it quite that way. But still Dorcas certainly wouldn’t do. It would be very disagreeable for her at her age to be thrown into a household of that kind, and perhaps made fun of by smart servants.”

“And besides that,” said Mrs Headfort, “I don’t see how you could do without her here; and she is so clever about the children, it is a satisfaction to know you have her to consult if anything was wrong with either of them while I’m away. I mean,” she went on, with a half-unconscious apology for her maternal egotism, “for your sake, too, mamma, it lessens the responsibility.”

Mrs Raynsworth did not at once reply; she was thinking over things.

“There is Fanny,” she said; “she is a quick girl; she might be better than no one.”

“I scarcely think so,” said Philippa, “and she is inclined to be a chatterbox. She would entertain the servants’-hall at Wyverston with all the details of our life here, and, of course, it would be terribly undignified to tell her to hold her tongue, as if we had anything to be ashamed of. It would seem to her that we wanted her to be untruthful—oh, no, it would never do!”

“There’s nothing to do that I can see,” said Evelyn, “except for me to go alone. There is just a chance of Dorcas hearing of some one—a girl in the village—who was coming home between two places, or something of that kind. Failing that, I see nothing for it.”

“I think a perfect stranger would be worse than anything,” said Philippa, “she would be so utterly unused to your ways, and yet—I thoroughly agree with what Duke says about it!”

“Oh, dear,” said Mrs Headfort, throwing herself back in her chair. “What a bother it all is! I almost wish the Wyverston people had continued to forget us. And yet I should be so proud and pleased if any good came of it for Duke, as it were, you know, through me, I mean, if I could make a good impression on them;” and her face flushed a little.

“How could she fail to do so?” thought her younger sister to herself, glancing at Evelyn with fond admiration.

Mrs Headfort looked very pretty, the slight additional colour brightening up her fair complexion advantageously. She was very pretty, and her beauty was of the kind that bears criticising—looking into minutely—for her features were all delicate and regular, her expression sweet though far from insipid, making a charming whole, though, as a rule, perhaps somewhat wanting in colour.

“Don’t let us talk about this tiresome maid question any more just now,” the elder sister continued. “I’ve lots to tell you and ask you about my clothes, Philippa. You must have seen all sorts of beautiful dresses at Dorriford, though I’m afraid there’s too little time for me to profit by any hints. And, by-the-by, I’ve not let you tell anything about Dorriford yet, rushing at you with my affairs.”

“It is so very interesting about your going to Wyverston,” said Philippa. “It has almost made me forget what I had to tell you. Nothing really exciting, perhaps! But it was all so new to me, and they were so kind. I did enjoy it thoroughly.”

Some details of her visit followed—about the people she had met, and descriptions of the place itself—the latter made more distinct by questions from her mother, who had stayed there once in her young days long ago.

“And they say—Mrs Lermont and Maida especially—that I must go back there before long. And oh! mamma,” she went on, “about the money! Wasn’t it kind of Mrs Lermont?” and she related what had passed between herself and her hostess just before she left Dorriford.

“It was very kind, very kind and thoughtful,” said Mrs Raynsworth, cordially.

“I’ve got ever so much money over,” Philippa continued. “The whole of Mrs Lermont’s present, of course, and some of what you gave me, mamma.”

“You may give me back the remains of mine,” said her mother, “but you must certainly keep what your cousin gave you for yourself, however you do another time. You father must certainly pay it this once.”

As she said the words, the door opened and Mr Raynsworth came in. He was tall and thin, fair like his elder daughter, and with the slight bend in his shoulders inevitable in one of his scholarly habits. He smiled brightly as he caught sight of Philippa,