Delsie

Chapter Six

The next few days passed with a mixture of joy, embarrassment, and serene contentment. They were never boring. The meetings with the funeral callers were a strain. There was no denying that fact; even with the family at her back she felt foolish to be presented as the bride of a dead man nearly old enough to be her father, one, besides, whom she scarcely knew. But as wise old Lady Jane had predicted, prying questions were kept to a minimum.

Delsie smiled to herself to see deVigne poker up, pinch in his nostrils and say “Indeed?” when a neighbor from the far side of the hill began a discussion on her shock at reading of the affair in the papers. She knew Jane was also busy visualizing dead rats, for she would hear all about it after the company had left.

Few questions were directed to herself, and those that were, she fielded easily enough, for she wore a downcast, bewildered face, and the quizzing was not severe.

The periods with Bobbie were joyful. Such a blessed relief to have the throng of children to which she was accustomed, mostly rowdy boys too, reduced to one fairly well behaved girl, who already looked to her as a surrogate mother, and was beginning to run to her with her secrets and problems. Time was found for a few walks in the afternoon with her stepdaughter, to further the acquaintance.

When the callers were done with, the family would gather back at the Dower House to sit and gossip and even-it seemed incredible-to laugh occasionally. This, in her private thoughts, Delsie considered the happy hour. With the day’s duties done, she could relax. She had quickly come to the stage where she was perfectly at ease with Lady Jane, and no longer on tenterhooks with deVigne, though they still addressed each other formally, with always that “Mrs. Grayshott” irking her. Then there was dinner, a formal meal, whose elegancies she was able to appreciate now as she had not on that first, dreadful day of her wedding.

She had been married on Sunday. The funeral was Thursday. On Friday the idyll was over. DeVigne came over after breakfast to take her to the Cottage, her new home. “I’ll tell Miss Milne to prepare Bobbie’s things,” she said, and excused herself.

“I’m sorry to see them go,” Lady Jane said to her nephew. “It was good to have a spot of company. Harold is as dumb as a dog, unless I let him talk my ear off about Rome or Greece. It was a wise move, Max, to push this marriage.”

“It seems to be working out very well for us. I can’t imagine Mrs. Grayshott will be as happy at the Cottage as she has been here with you.”

“How happy can she have been in Questnow? What a strange, lonely life the girl has led. Little things she says betray her, you know, like how pleasant it is to have company for her meals. She must have eaten all alone, I suppose, since her mama’s passing. Imagine that ninny of a Harold having known Strothingham all along and not telling us. We might have made her acquaintance years ago.”

“She was living in a very mean sort of an apartment. Remarkable she is so refined.”

“I was happily surprised with her liveliness. I had not suspected vivacity from her, for she was such a dowdy little dresser, but she is very conversable. I like her excessively.”

The widow soon returned below with Bobbie and Miss Milne, the three of them to be taken in deVigne’s carriage to the Cottage. Once there, he did no more than make her acquainted with her housekeeper before leaving, saying he would return later in the day.

“You will find plenty to keep you busy,” he said, glancing around at the somber surroundings. “But I shan’t volunteer any suggestions, knowing you like to make your own decisions.” This was said in a rallying tone, but it did not rally her. She felt utterly depressed, and the large beef-faced woman standing before her in a soiled apron did nothing to cheer her up.

“I’ll take my leave now, Mrs. Grayshott,” deVigne bowed, and went to the door. Delsie looked helplessly to the governess and Bobbie, fast disappearing up the stairs, then after deVigne. She took a step after him, wishing she could run right out the door and go back to the Dower House. As she realized what she had done, she continued after him, as though, it had been her intention to accompany him to the front door.

“Don’t despair,” he said in a kindly tone. “This was used to be a fine and attractive home a few years ago, when my sister was alive. You will make it so again in a very short time, I am convinced. Be firm with the Bristcombes. They have fallen into slovenly habits with Andrew not watching them as he ought.” Mrs. Bristcombe stood with her arms crossed, staring at them suspiciously, beyond earshot. Then deVigne was gone, and Delsie turned back to face her future.

Be firm, he had said, and firmness was clearly needed here. “Have you any orders, miss?” Mrs. Bristcombe asked, an insolent expression settling on her coarse features as soon as deVigne was gone.

“Yes, the title is ma’am, not miss,” Delsie said in her firmest teacher’s voice, “and I shall have a great many orders. The first is that you put on a clean apron, and not wear a soiled one in my house again.”

“They don’t stay clean long in the kitchen,” the woman replied tartly, scanning her new mistress from head to toe in a very bold fashion. She had not behaved so when deVigne was with them.

“Then you must have several, to provide yourself a change, must you not?”

“Muslin costs money.”

“All of three shillings a yard, for that quality. I shall buy some, and you will have it made into aprons.”

Mrs. Bristcombe’s steely eyes narrowed, but she pulled in her horns. “What’ll you have for lunch?” she asked.

“What have you got in the house?”

“There’s cold mutton, and a long bill overdue at the grocer’s, while we’re on the subject.”

“Why has it not been paid?”

“The master’s been sick, as you might have heard,” she replied with a heavy sarcasm, to reveal her opinion of the marriage.

“Prepare your accounts and present them to me in the study this afternoon, if you please. The mutton will do for luncheon, with an omelette. You know how to prepare an omelette?” Delsie asked, to retaliate for the former insult.

The woman sniffed, and Mrs. Grayshott continued asserting her authority. “I am going to make a tour of the house. There is no need for you to accompany me. Miss Roberta will come with me.”

“You won’t find it in very good shape.”

“So I assumed,” Delsie replied, looking around her. “I understood girls were sent down from the Hall to tidy the place up.”

“They’ve changed the linen upstairs and cleaned up the yellow guest room for you.”

“Thank you, but I am not a guest in this house, Mrs. Bristcombe. I shall notify you what chamber I wish cleaned for me. Good day.” She turned and swept up the stairs, resolved not to let that Tartar get the upper hand of her, though she was weak from nervousness after the encounter.

She walked along the upstairs hall till she heard voices. Bobbie and Miss Milne were putting off their pelisses, and she requested Bobbie to show her around the house. “I’ll show you my room first,” Bobbie said proudly. “This is it.”

“I thought you would still be in the nursery,” Delsie answered. The room was not unpleasant, but it was not a child’s room. The furnishings were of dark oak, the window hangings and canopy of a somber, dusky blue. The paintings on the walls were also dark and not likely to appeal to a child.

“I wondered when I came that she was not in the nursery,” Miss Milne mentioned, “but I was told this is her room.”

“Mrs. Bristcombe told you?” Mrs. Grayshott inquired, in a voice a little taut.

“Yes, ma’am. I took my directions from her. I seldom spoke to Mr. Grayshott.”

“I had to leave the nursery last year, ‘cause I couldn’t sleep with all the noise,” Bobbie told them. Delsie thought this referred to noises made by a drunken father, and asked no more questions, but the child spoke on. “Mrs. Bristcombe said it was the pixies in the orchard,” she said, her eyes big. “Daddy said it was the pixies too, so I got this nice room, like a grown-up.”

“In the orchard?” Delsie asked, surprised that Mr. Grayshott would be allowed out of the house drunk. One would have thought his valet or Bristcombe would have kept him in. She must ask Lady Jane about this.

“I have thought I heard noises outside myself, from time to time,” Miss Milne said, rather hesitantly, as though she were unsure whether she should speak. “If you won’t be needing me right away, ma’am, I’ll go to my room and unpack.”

“Go ahead.” The girl left, with a rather shy smile. She would make a friend. It was a good feeling, to have one person of her own age and sex in the house, one not too far removed from her in breeding as well. The girl seemed polite and well behaved. Her chief interest, however, was in her new stepdaughter, and she turned to her with a determined smile. “How about showing me that walking doll you spoke of? I never heard of a doll who can walk. Do we have to hold her hands and pull her along?”

“Oh, no, she walks all by herself,” Bobbie boasted. “Daddy made her for me. Well, he didn’t ‘zactly make her. He bought a plain doll, and Mommy cut her stomach open, and Daddy put in some little wheels, and now she can walk.” As she spoke she went to a shelf where a considerable quantity of stuffed toys were set out, the only concession to the room’s being inhabited by a child. “Daddy was very smart, before Mommy died. He made a secret drawer in Mommy’s dresser that opens with a hidden button.”

She selected a doll dressed in a sailor’s uniform, reached under the jacket to wind a key, and, when the doll was set on the floor, it took half a dozen jerky steps before toppling over. “He doesn’t walk too good,” Bobbie said, setting it back up for another dozen steps.

“How ingenious! Your daddy made this?” Delsie asked, sure the child was inventing this story. But when she took the doll up, she saw that the stuffed body had indeed been slit open and sewed up.

“He made me a cat that shook her head too, but I broke her,” Bobbie said, then took the doll to throw it on the bed. “Next I’ll show you Mama’s room. It’s the nicest one. I think you should use it, only it’s quite far away from mine.”

They walked half the length of the hall, then Bobbie opened a door into a lady’s chamber of considerable elegance, though the elegance had begun to fade. It was done in rose velvet, the window and bed hangings still in good repair, but very likely full of dust. The furniture was dainty French in design, white-painted, with gilt trim. There was a makeup table with lamps, an escritoire-such a room as Delsie had only dreamed of. The late Mrs. Grayshott’s belongings were still laid out-chased-silver brushes, cut-glass perfume bottles, and a whole battery of pots and trays holding creams, powders, and the accessories to a lady’s toilette. “Let us see the yellow room Mrs. Bristcombe made up for me,” Delsie said, with a last, longing look at this room.

“It’s this way, next to mine,” Bobbie told her, and led her to a good room, square, but with none of the finery of the lady’s chamber. Like Bobbie’s, it faced the west side of the house, away from the orchard. “You won’t be bothered by the pixies either,” Bobbie told her.

“Likely that’s why she put you here. Miss Milne sleeps right next door.”

They did not disturb Miss Milne, but went along to look into other chambers, the master bedroom (which opened through an adjoining door into the late Mrs. Grayshott’s suite) being the end of the tour.

“Since you’re my mama now, I think you should sleep in here,” Bobbie said firmly.

It was all the inducement Delsie needed to make the charming chamber her own, and she said, “I think so too, but then I shall be away from you and Miss Milne. Let us look again at the room next to your mama’s.”

“It’s the primrose suite,” Bobbie said, and entered again, enjoying very much playing the guide.

“This is one of my favorites,” Delsie said involuntarily, looking at the spring-like walls, sprigged with flowers. The curtains were done in apple green with white tassels, and the furniture light and graceful. “I wonder you were not moved into this room,” Delsie mentioned.

“It’s on the wrong side. The pixies,” Bobbie answered.

“I have a feeling the pixies won’t bother us any longer,” she answered with a smile. “Stepmothers, you know, are very powerful creatures, and the pixies never bother us. Miss Milne could use the room next door to yours, and we three would all be close together for company.” This seemed important to the widow, to be not too far removed from other life in the house.

“Let’s move my stuff, then,” Bobbie suggested at once.

“We’ll speak to Miss Milne first, shall we?” This was done, with the practical suggestion coming from Miss Milne that the chambers be cleaned and aired first. When Miss Milne went for dustcloths and brooms, Delsie found herself at loose ends, and to get in the morning, she took to herself the chore of doing up her own room. It was a pleasure to restore the lovely furnishings to their proper state of gloss, to clean the mirror and polish those cut-glass bottles, to arrange her few gowns in the clothes press. She would have the hangings taken down and the carpet raised for beating before the snow began to fly. The hours till luncheon flew past happily.

“Can I eat with you, Mama?” Bobbie asked when the job was done.

“I hope you don’t plan to make me eat alone!” Delsie exclaimed. No other course had occurred to her. “Miss Milne, you will join us as well, I hope?”

Miss Milne seemed pleased at the invitation, and the three went down together to wash up. When Bobbie twice addressed her new stepmother as Mama, Delsie smiled in contentment and said nothing. To put the matter on a settled basis, Bobbie herself brought up the point. “Since you’re in Mama’s room now, I must call you Mama.” So she explained her action,

“Of course you must, my dear,” Delsie replied matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Bristcombe had not actually said she knew how to make an omelette, which perhaps accounted for the greasy mess served up at that meal. While taking the housekeeper to task on that account, the widow forgot to ask the woman to please make up her bed, but really, the poor woman did seem to be overworked. There did not appear to be another female servant in the house, except for the governess, who obviously could not be expected to do it. She would find clean linen and do it herself.

After luncheon, it was time to turn Bobbie over to Miss Milne for lessons, but before doing so, she discovered of them the location of the linen closet. It was a large walk-in cupboard, with several rows of shelves, nine tenths of them empty. When she took her own linen, there remained in the place exactly two towels, and no bed sheets. Must ask Mrs. Bristcombe about this.

When the bed was finished, she went to the study to meet the housekeeper on the matter of the accounts, and they had an unpleasant conversation over unpaid bills of such staggering sums that Delsie was surprised the grocer had not set up a public clamor. When queried about the lack of linens, the woman said firmly there was not another bit or piece of material in the house. Nothing had been replaced since Mrs. Grayshott’s death, and the old ones were so full of holes, with no one to mend them, that she’d torn them up to use for rags.

“It seems very strange to me,” Delsie said severely, not willing to relinquish a single point to her adversary. “I suppose I must get some new ones.”

“If you think it’s worth your while,” Mrs. Bristcombe answered mysteriously, then arose and left.

Delsie sat pondering that statement. It sounded strangely as though the woman didn’t think she’d be staying long. When the front-door knocker sounded, she went herself to answer it. Unaccustomed to servants, she did not find this so strange as a lady from a well-ordered home would have done.

DeVigne was surprised to see her come to the door, and asked where Bristcombe was.

“Does Mr. Bristcombe work here as well?” Delsie asked. “I haven’t a notion where he may be. I have not had the pleasure of meeting any of the servants except Mrs. Bristcombe, and I use the word ‘pleasure’ in its loosest sense, I assure you.”

“She should have assembled them for your inspection and orders,” he mentioned.

Delsie was intelligent enough to realize then that she should have had this done, but how was she to know? She had never had a single servant to command. “Shall we go into the study? I have had a fire laid there, where I have been going over accounts with Mrs. Bristcombe. A harrowing pastime, I might add.”

They entered the study and took up the two uncomfortable chairs nearest the grate. “Things are in a muddle, are they?” he inquired. “I can’t say I’m surprised. Andrew was in no case to attend to business, and resented any interference. Have you managed to figure out the extent of his debt?”

“If I have all the bills. They were handed to me in a box, loose. No records of any sort kept. I make it roughly a hundred pounds!” she said, wide-eyed at such a sum. “That is a whole year’s salary.”

“A teacher’s salary?” he asked, his lips unsteady.

“That is what I was paid at St. Mary’s, though I believe Mr. Umpton made considerably more.”

“Of course he would. He is a man,” deVigne answered, unwisely.

“He was not hired as a man, but as a teacher, like myself. Of course a man must support a family,” she added grudgingly. It had pestered her, this fact of Umpton’s making twice the salary she made, for doing half the work.

“You will be happy to hear you are better situated financially now,” deVigne informed her. “I have been to the solicitor, and wish to discuss money matters with you. Louise’s portion was twenty-five thousand pounds. The interest of that amounts to twelve-fifty yearly for the running of the Cottage. It is not a large sum, but-”

“Not large? It is a fortune!” Delsie contradicted bluntly. “Of course, the expenses on such an establishment as this must be considerable. Is there a mortgage on the house?”

“No, the family built the house as a summer cottage for Louise and Andrew as a wedding gift. It is Roberta’s now, in trust till her maturity. The expenses certainly are considerable. There are the servants to be paid and kept. Louise’s portion was never meant to carry the whole. Andrew was well fixed when they married, but he ran through his capital with gambling and mismanagement after his wife’s death. You know the story. The Bristcombes have been receiving two hundred annually, along with their room and board, and the governess is paid seventy-five-less than a teacher,” he pointed out with a mischievous smile. “When we are fortunate enough to have a governess, that is. The other servants-”

“Excuse me, milord, but I have been wondering about that, I don’t see any other servants about. Mrs. Bristcombe does everything-everything that gets done, that is to say. She does the cooking and ordering of household supplies, and it was she who laid the fire. There doesn’t seem to be another soul in the house, except Miss Milne.”

“This is absurd,” deVigne said at once. “There is Betsy Rose, the downstairs maid, and I’m sure there was an upstairs maid as well. Naturally Andrew’s valet, Samson, has left, but there was used to be a footboy to help Bristcombe, though I think he left some while ago. The Bristcombes cannot be doing the whole of the work themselves.”

Delsie ran a finger along the top of a table, and it came away covered in dust. “I cannot believe there is a Betsy Rose here any longer,” she said.

“We shall certainly have to see about that. I had thought the total costs for servants would amount to about four-fifty, which would leave you eight hundred to run the place. Do you think you can do it? There is food and fuel, but much of both come from the Hall. There will be general household costs and maintenance, along with stable expenses… No, it can’t be done. You will do better to use my carriage, unless you wish to use your own money to set up a tilbury or landau.”

“My money?” she asked, startled, then looked away in embarrassment. Where had he taken the idea she had any money of her own? Surely he must have realized from her style of living that she had none. “I don’t have any money,” she said simply.

“You have five thousand pounds,” he told her. “I explained when we discussed your marrying Andrew that a small settlement would be made on you. It is not much, but it is your own, to do with as you wish. You would be wise to leave the capital intact and use only the interest, but that, of course, is quite your own affair.”

She was on her feet in revolt. “I cannot possibly take such a sum! It would be-immoral!” Oh, but wouldn’t it be lovely? Fifty years’ salary.

“It is business, Mrs. Grayshott. We agreed to the settlement. It was inherent in our deal. In fact, it is done. I told you I had been to the solicitor. Your actual salary, if you use only the interest, will not be so much greater than your stipend at St. Mary’s, and your costs, I fear, will be higher. Well, a carriage for one thing, and you will want to buy some personal effects, very likely.”

Casting an eye down at her black gown, which she was so heartily tired of seeing, she saw the justice of his words. “It seems a high price to pay, only to have a guardian for Bobbie.”

“She is my niece, my only niece. There is no way I would prefer to spend the money.”

“It still seems a great deal of money.”

“If it makes you feel better, Sir Harold and myself share the cost. We were both happy to have the matter settled so quickly and so felicitously. The court costs to acquire guardianship of her would have been great, to say nothing of the inconvenience and unpleasantness of such a course. Nor is it at all certain we would have won. So, that matter is taken care of. Can you hold house on fifteen hundred a year? I include your own money in the figure.”

“Certainly I can. I must he a wretched manager if I could not. There is a grocery bill I should like to settle at once. How do I arrange to pay the bills?”

“You may turn the matter over to me, or, if you prefer-as I suspect you do-I shall put the income from Bobbie’s trust in your hands for you to draw on from the bank.”

“That would be better.”

With a smile, he handed her a bankbook. “You see, it is not always necessary for me to consult you on matters. I come to realize how you prefer to have things done.”

She took the book and opened it. “Why, Mr. Grayshott hasn’t spent a penny of the income the whole year! The year nearly over too-December. What do you suppose he used for money all the while?”

“I have a sinking sensation we shall discover he has been living on tick. His credit would be good. I shall put a notice in the papers, with your approval.”

“You have my approval,” she said with resignation. “And you needn’t feel it necessary to consult me on every little detail.”

“How shall I know in what areas you consider me competent to exercise my own judgment?” he asked, in a tone which she suspected was not entirely serious.

“I referred only to personal matters. On those I should like to be consulted.”

“Surely the handling of money is a highly personal affair.”

“In this case, it is Roberta’s money, for the most part, that we are discussing.”

“You are now her legal guardian. The finances are entirely in your capable hands. They could not be in better ones, in my opinion, ma’am.”

“Thank you. I do mean to be careful of her monies. And there is something other than money I should like to discuss with you. I would like to be rid of the Bristcombes.”

“So soon?” he asked, startled.

“She is impertinent and slovenly and-and I don’t like her,” she finished, less sure of her ground.

“You are the mistress here. If you wish to be rid of her, then by all means turn her off.”

“What do you think?” she asked, for she could see very plainly that he disliked the suggestion, for some reason.

“I think you judge on very little evidence, Mrs. Grayshott. You have not been here above half a day. She does appear slovenly, and the house, of course, is in wretched shape, but if she is indeed doing the whole herself, it must be taken into consideration. The Bristcombes have been with Andrew for years, stood by him all through his illness. Dismissal seems a poor reward for such faithfulness. As to the impertinence, may I inquire what form it took?”

“She called me ‘miss,’ for one thing.”

“A slip of the tongue, I should think. I have had the impression over the past few days that you dislike my calling you Mrs. Grayshott. Is it not so?”

Again she flinched at the name. “I do dislike it, but it is my name now, and I must get used to it.”

“It is inevitable you will be addressed so by outsiders, but within the family, I think we might spare you, as you dislike it. I notice the others have circumvented the use of it. Jane calls you by your given name, and Bobbie will certainly call you Mama ere long.”

“She already does!” she interjected happily.

“I am so glad! I have seen with pleasure her growing admiration for you, and knew it must come to ‘Mama’ within the week. ‘Mama’ will hardly do for myself, however. Can we not hit on something less galling than Mrs. Grayshott?”

“It will not do to call me Miss Sommers,” she pointed out, with a rising curiosity as to what he had in mind. She had a strange notion he meant to call her “Delsie,” and would not have objected to being asked to address him as “Max” either.

“No, that was not the alternative I had in mind. Shall we make do with the catch-all word cousin? I call many of my connections who are not actually cousins by the term.”

“I have no objection,” she allowed, feeling unaccountably let down. To have thought a week ago deVigne would be calling her “cousin” would have been incredible.

“While we are about renaming ourselves, do you think you might dispense with the ‘milord’? My name is Maxwell. The family call me Max, or just deVigne, without the ‘Lord.’ ”

She nodded, and decided on the spot that as he had not called her Delsie, he would remain deVigne till hell froze over.

“Another item settled, cousin, to our mutual satisfaction, or almost. Shall we drink to it? In this house above all others, I shouldn’t think there would be any scarcity of wine.”

She found a decanter on the sideboard in the dining room and brought it and two glasses into the study. DeVigne’s eyes grew at the size of the shot she poured out, but he said only, “Thank you,” and took a careful sip, while Delsie took a longer one and promptly fell into a spasm of coughing.

“What is it?” she gasped, when she recovered her speech.

“It is brandy, and very fine stuff too. French. Smuggled, of course. Trust Andrew. It is to be sipped, by the way, not tossed off like lemonade. If I may make a suggestion.”

She glared at this repetitious poking fun of her desire to have things in her own hands. She set the brandy aside. “We were speaking of firing Mrs. Bristcombe,” she said in a businesslike way. “You think I ought to wait and see if she improves?”

“I would do so. It sets people’s backs up needlessly to fire servants. We are desirous just now of not drawing any unfavorable attention to ourselves. It is up to you, however.”

She regretted very much her lack of experience in such matters. The woman seemed impossible to her, but perhaps all servants were bothersome. The gentry did seem to be forever complaining of their servants. “I’ll wait a little,” she decided, “but I suspect that as well as being slovenly and impertinent, she is also dishonest. How many sheets did your sister have when she married?”

He looked astonished at the question, and shrugged his shoulders. “I couldn’t say. Perhaps two-three dozen. May I know why you ask?”

“There was exactly one pair in the linen cupboard, and where did they go? That is what I should like to know!” she said, nodding her head.

“It is close to a decade since Louise married. They are worn out, I suppose.”

“She has only been dead three years. Two or three dozen sheets do not wear out so quickly. They have been stolen. And not more than a pair of clean towels. She must have had two or three dozen of them as well, and from the looks of the people in this house, I cannot believe that towels were worn to patches, whatever about sheets.”

“You take your hoarding of Bobbie’s monies and chattels very seriously, cousin. Replace what you need, and keep count of them. You’ll soon learn if you are being bilked. Have you run into any other problems, besides vanishing linen and housekeepers who call you ‘miss’?”

“Only the pixies, but I suppose you know about them.”

“No, I don’t. Do tell me, what have the pixies been up to? Stealing the preserve jars?”

“No, they have been frightening Bobbie. Did Mr. Grayshott roam about the grounds drunk at night?”

“Not to my knowledge. He drank to excess, of course, but I never heard anything about his roaming outside the house in such a state. I cannot think Samson would have permitted anything so dangerous.”

“Someone, Mrs. Bristcombe in fact, told her the noises in the orchard at night were pixies, and so she had to sleep on the west side. I have moved her to the east, hoping the pixies have made their last racket. I am taking the late Mrs. Grayshott’s suite for myself,” she added with a defensive look, ready for objections.

“I should think so. It used to be a charming suite. We had the furnishings imported from France. No doubt you will secrete your pin money in the secret compartment Andrew installed at the back of one of the drawers for Louise.”

“Bobbie mentioned it. I have not seen it yet. He was quite ingenious with mechanical contrivances, was he not? Bobbie showed me her walking doll.”

“It was a hobby with him. I have an extremely ugly clock at the Hall I must show you some time. He fixed up a mantel clock for me, the face of it inserted in the stomach of a blackamoor, engineered in such a way that the fellow’s eyes move with every tick. It annoyed me so, I had it removed to a guest suite. It is one of Bobbie’s favorite toys. When will you be bringing her to see me?”

“Does she go to you often?”

“Not till the present, but I hope to see you both there frequently, now that matters are more congenially arranged. I shall have the pleasure of your company this evening, I trust? We are to dine there. I’ll send the carriage for you at six, if that-”

“Yes, it meets with my approval,” she told him, with a baleful stare that concealed her joy.

“One would never guess it from that black scowl, cousin,” he answered, and arose to leave.