Entr'acte

 Part IV. Bath Interlude

30

Entr’acte

    In the end it was Dr Mitchell rather than Mrs Maddern who would have been satisfied by the quality of the first part of Hildy’s visit to Bath. The elderly Mrs Kernohan had taken one look at the girl’s washed-out little face and quietly determined to see that she did nothing more exciting for quite some time than visit the Pump Room. Hildy therefore had a very peaceful time of it indeed, and as Mrs Kernohan was every much of a bookworm as Dorothea had indicated, they spent many companionable afternoons in Mrs Kernohan’s warm little sitting-room, reading. Mrs Kernohan, as she had very early explained to Hildy with a twinkle, was no hand with her needle. And Hildy had replied with a gasp of relief that neither was she. It was not long, in fact, before Hildy was wishing that Mrs Kernohan was her near relation rather than Dorothea’s.

    Mrs Maddern’s hopes of the social life of Bath for her third daughter, combined with her own busy-ness over the trousseaux for the two older girls, had prompted her to send Hildy to Bath sooner than they had originally planned. So Hildy and Mrs Kernohan had two whole weeks together before Dorothea herself, with her little girl, came to spend some time with her grandmamma.

    Dorothea, of course, was not really Hildy’s friend, but Amabel’s, but it would not have been possible to dislike the gentle creature, and Hildy in her present state was very content just to wander out in her company on a dawdling stroll to purchase a packet of pins or a ribbon. Dorothea did not chat about anything more intellectually demanding than the delights of the Bath shops, her little girl’s health, diet and exploits, or the difficulties of matching the exact shade of the thread in the chair-cover she was embroidering as her mamma’s Christmas present, but then Hildy did not desire her to.

    It was about a week since Mrs O’Flynn and Miss Catherine had arrived in Bath, and the two young women were again on one of their gentle strolls, when they observed a gentleman on the other side of the street who was doffing his hat and bowing very low.

    “If that is old General Lowell,” said Hildy with a giggle, “do let us walk on quickly, for although he is a most estimable creature, his outdated gallantries always make me want to laugh dreadfully!”

    Dorothea had to smile: they had encountered General Lowell, who was an old acquaintance of her grandmamma’s, at the Pump Room only yesterday, and it had been very plain that the old gentleman was much taken by Hildy’s fairy-like face and figure and sprightly wit. He had in fact referred to it as sprightly wit, and even the well-mannered Dorothea had had to roll her lips rather hard together and pretend the waters she had just swallowed tasted nasty. Not that they did not.

    But she said: “No, Hildy, of course it is not, how can you!”—The general was a stout party. This gentleman was distinctly slim.—“It is my cousin, Dorian Kernohan.”

    “Dorian?” said Hildy on a weak note, as the gentleman began to make his way through the crowd of carriages, drays and similar lesser vehicles, and the inevitable chairs, towards them.

    Dorothea bit her lip. “They have all names like that: Aunt Henry Kernohan is a—a Romantically-minded lady.”

    Hildy choked. But she smiled pleasantly at Mr Dorian Kernohan, to Dorothea’s relief.

    Dorian Kernohan, like many of Mrs Kernohan’s descendants, was a good-looking fellow, though he had not the outstanding, almost fey, beauty of Hilary Parkinson. Which was perhaps as well for Hildy’s peace of mind. He had the same lightish brown eyes, though not that extraordinary almond shape, and similar light brown hair, and was altogether a pleasant sight for a young lady to encounter on a brisk October morning in the streets of Bath. Hildy perceived immediately, without needing to verbalize it to herself, that he was a bit of a flirt, and a young man who liked women, if he did not expect to be taken entirely seriously by them; and was not displeased with this.

    Dorian for his part was immediately enchanted by the little heart-shaped face framed in its grey-fur-trimmed bonnet and grey tippet, and squeezed the little warm, gloved hand that came out of the grey muff very gently and smiled into her amazing grey-green eyes, not at all displeased to find his pulses quicken or to see an answering spark of interest in Miss Hildegarde’s glance.

    He ascertained the ladies were intending to buy a pair of gloves (for Dorothea) and perhaps a ribbon (for Hildy) and, brazenly declaring himself to be an expert on both these topics, took an arm of each and strolled off between them, very pleased with himself indeed. And silently thinking it was nuts to Aurelius and Roland, for he had met Grandmamma Kernohan’s lady guest first, and far from satisfying Aurry’s claim that she would have a squint and spots, or Roly’s that she would be one of Grandmamma’s boring bluestockings with spectacles and no chin, she was as pretty as a picture! Though to be sure it was a great pity, if it was true, as Mamma claimed, that she had no portion.

    He escorted the ladies back to his grandmamma’s house, took a cup of tea with them under the amused old lady’s sapient eye and, having extracted from Hildy the information that she very much enjoyed music, went off gaily promising that his mamma should invite them all to a concert at the end of the week.

    He was as good as his word, and the Romantically-minded Mrs Henry, she who was aware of Miss Hildegarde Maddern’s portionless state, looked on with a wary eye as not only Dorian but his younger brother Roland and his elder brother Aurelius made themselves exceeding agreeable to Mother Kernohan’s guest. In fact it was difficult to choose between the three of them for agreeableness, and if she had started the evening concerned for Dorian’s fate, she ended it not knowing which of them to worry about first. –Mr Henry Kernohan, a stoutish, good-natured man, merely laughed when she attempted to express her fears and said that he did not think Miss Hildegarde seemed overexcited by any of their progeny, but if it was meant, no doubt it would happen. And that Harry Ainsley might have been a rascal, but the family was a decent one, after all. The Romantically-minded Mrs Henry was not much comforted by this speech.

    And indeed, the sight of Miss Hildegarde Maddern, with or without young Mrs O’Flynn, closely escorted by all three Kernohan brothers, was soon a very common one in the fashionable lounges of Bath. And whenever Miss Hildegarde and Mrs Kernohan came to take the waters, sooner or later all three of them would turn up. Though none of them except perhaps Aurry, who had been wounded at Waterloo, could have been said to be at all in need of the healing properties of the famous Bath waters.

    Most of the Kernohans’ acquaintance maintained that of course she would have the eldest son: and besides, the more Romantically inclined ladies amongst them would add, did not an aura of mysterious sadness cling to Major Kernohan, with his poor arm, and his wife having died so young, when he was little more than a boy?

    It was true that Aurelius’s right arm had been sadly shattered, and though he had got some mobility back, and had been very fortunate not to have lost the forearm entire, it did still give him some pain, especially in inclement weather. His mamma’s Bath doctor thought there might be a shred of shrapnel in there, still, but on the whole it was wiser to let sleeping dogs lie. Aurry himself considered the arm had been poked around with enough, for as if the regimental doctor had not been enough, he had been sent to a surgeon in London who had cut it open again, extracting several splinters from it; so he was more than content to let it lie. And what was an occasional twinge or two? He was a tall man, darker than the rest of his family, with the sort of jaw that becomes very blue-looking towards evening, and these dark looks combined with a certain shadow in his eyes went some way towards justifying certain Bath ladies’ description of him as a most Byronic figure, especially when the mouth was twisted in that little rictus, when the arm nagged him.

    Aurry was rather at a loose end, having been invalided out when the London surgeon had declared bluntly that that arm would never wield a sabre again, and though he was not in the least serious about little Miss Hildegarde and did not flatter himself that she was so about him, it was very pleasant to find a pretty girl who would laugh at one’s jokes and even counter with a few of her own, and— Well! Why not?

    His sentimental mother declared he was beginning to live again, and burst into tears over it, but Mr Henry Kernohan pointed that that was going a dashed sight too far, it was eight years since he’d been left a widower, and that last leave before the battle he hadn’t seemed to be pining, what about that yaller-headed little chit— No, well, sorry, my dear; of course I am glad the boy’s in spirits again. Mr Henry did not go on to remind his Romantically-minded spouse of Miss Hildegarde’s portionless state: he knew she was capable of recalling that for herself.

    Mr Roland Kernohan was a handsome young fellow of very nearly nineteen summers, with fair curls carefully arranged in riotous disarray, big blue eyes like his Cousin Dorothea’s, and a Romantick disposition which impelled him to the composition of sonnets and odes, though not at the same time preventing his cutting a notable figure in the hunting field. He had fallen violently in love at the first sight of Hildy clad in deep violet for the concert, and on returning home that evening commenced an impassioned sonnet on the spot. With the obligatory dampened towel round the brow. It was very difficult to find a rhyme for “auburn”, but he flattered himself that “deeply verdant pools” was not half bad as a description of her wonderful eyes!

    Most fortunately Roly had been overcome with bashfulness at the idea of presenting his homage to his goddess in person, and instead dispatched it by the footman, parcelled up with lots of green and mauve ribands and, it not being the season for violets or heartsease, some dried lavender sprays that his mother and sisters had put aside to make into lavender bags for the family drawers, and thus was spared Hildy’s shrieks of laughter upon reading it. But she liked the lavender, and ran upstairs with it smiling, and put it in her handkerchief drawer. And was forthwith overcome by a very odd feeling indeed, which she did not quite recognize as nostalgia for the state of complete innocence which was the naïve Roland’s and which, young as she was, would never be hers again.

    If she had had to choose one of the Kernohan brothers there and then, Hildy would most probably have plumped for Aurry, for although she very much enjoyed the flirtatious Dorian’s teasing company, Aurry’s quieter personality and more thoughtful mind greatly appealed to her, and she had a feeling that, should they get to know one another rather better, they might suit better than she and the frivolous middle brother. But very fortunately she did not have to choose at all, and it was so pleasant to be able to enjoy the company of any or all of the three of them, and to feel that she was not being pressured in any way! Hildy was not acquainted with the term “safety in numbers”, it was not a phrase that Dr Rogers would ever have thought to use, and Mrs Maddern would unhesitatingly have condemned it as vulgar. But nevertheless, it was precisely what she was feeling: there was safety in numbers and in not having to choose; and in the undemanding, admiring company of the three Kernohan brothers Hildy was very happy.

    Miss Angelica Kernohan, who at three-and twenty was the next sister down from Dorian and had a dear friend, one Miss Hawkins, for whom she had formed certain hopes, was not so happy about it. In especial as Miss Hawkins had unremarkable light brown hair that had to be tortured nightly by curling rags for it to wave at all accompanied by short-sighted, rather washed-out pale blue eyes, and Dorian had raved in his sisters’ hearing about Miss Hildegarde’s rioting auburn locks and astonishing green gaze. It was to be supposed that Miss Hawkins was not happy about it, either, but as it was her custom to confide in no-one but Angie, and in fact barely to speak to anyone above a whisper, the wider population of Bath was never to ascertain her exact feelings in the matter.

    Miss Tarragona Kernohan, who was almost seventeen and not out, fell for Hildy as violently as had Roland. Though it was true that no-one was vitally interested in this fact. Not even her best friend, Miss Miranda Delahunty. Who in fact was heard to remark with a loud sniff that she did not see what anyone saw in red hair and cat’s eyes and that if that was not a freckle on Miss Hildegarde Maddern’s nose, she, Miranda Delahunty, was a Dutchman.

    Miss Ariadne Kernohan, who was twenty-six years of age and, after losing one fiancé to the Peninsula Wars, again engaged to be married, took little interest in the thing. Except to remark that it was to be hoped Roland was not turning out as hopeless a case as Dorian. And that a little empty-headed red-head was not what a serious man like Aurry should be looking for. At his age.

    The two married Kernohan sisters, Violetta, Mrs Groot, and Hortensia, Mrs Yelden, were both sentimental souls who sighed over it and thought it would be so sweet if little Miss Hildegarde could favour dearest Aurry, he had been so lonely since the death of his wife, and she came barely to his shoulder, was not that adorable? And being portionless, she would be far less suitable for Dorian, as a younger son.

    And Proserpine, Miss Kernohan, who at thirty years of age, two years junior to Aurry, was very definitely on the shelf and very content to remain there, being devoted to good works and having a horror of Men, took no notice at all of her brothers’ goings-on. Though on being specifically appealed to she informed her Mamma in judicious tones that encouraging the boys to frivol at concerts and parties would inevitably lead to their associating with the wrong sort of young woman. But that, the whole family unanimously agreed, was no more than might have been expected, from Prosy.

    Life in Bath went on very pleasantly for Hildy and Dorothea, with little walks, visits to the Pump Room, the occasional concert and the occasional little dinner party—never very late, and Mrs Kernohan and Dorothea took great care that Hildy should be well wrapped up both going and coming.

    On one particularly fine day Aurry and Dorian took the young ladies out for a drive, Hildy in Aurry’s curricle and Dorothea in the Henry Kernohans’ barouche with Dorian, Ariadne and her fiancé. They saw a ruin and had a luncheon at a charming inn, and all declared themselves very pleased with the outing. Aurry most of all: he and Dorian had tossed for the privilege of escorting Miss Hildegarde, and Dorian had lost. And Miss Hildegarde was looking utterly enchantingly today, in her deep violet wool pelisse with a matching bonnet trimmed with black fur, a black fur tippet and a black fur muff with a frivolous little posy of tiny artificial heartsease pinned to it—a touch of Amabel’s. The brothers, indeed, were almost overcome by the sight of Hildy in her new winter outfit.

    Roland, of course, had earlier taken one look at her in the shade, and thought “Violets!” But very unfortunately his papa had declared that as the day was so fine they would jog on over to the Wells and take a look at that hunter Roly had been boring on about for the last six weeks. Only, if he did not care to, then possibly he was not interested in acquiring the nag after all? Hildy had lost out to the hunter. It was rather a pity that Aurry and Dorian, though both seeing the humour in this, did not think that she would, and so kept it from her.

    Dorothea’s stay with her grandmamma had almost drawn to a close, and she was planning already a delightful scheme whereby Miss Catherine O’Flynn and Master Matthew Carnaby, a near neighbour of Mrs Parkinson’s and of a similar age to Miss O’Flynn, should jointly celebrate the occasion of Master Matthew’s big sister’s sixth birthday—Miss Lillian Carnaby having declared that that little pest of a Matt should be utterly excluded as her party was to be Girls Only—with a ’ickle party to thems’ own selveses with tiny pink cakies, and suchlike, when she was gratified by the delivery of a note.

    “Well, my dear?” said her grandmother with an indulgent smile.

    Dorothea looked up from the note with shining eyes. “It is from Lord Lucas Claveringham: he is staying in Bath for a few days and—and may he come to call, Grandmamma?” she ended on a gasp.

    “Well, I dare say he may, if he has legs that’ll carry him along here,” she noted with a twinkle in her eye. “But whether or not we should be in to receive him, I’m sure I cannot say.”

    “Grandmamma!” cried Mrs O’Flynn in horrid disappointment.

    Hildy’s shoulders had been shaking silently since the word “legs” was mentioned. Now she spluttered helplessly.

    “Oh!” gulped Dorothea. “Are you joking, Grandmamma?”

    “Of course I am, you goose,” replied the old lady mildly. “As many lords this, that and t’other may come to call as they please. It will be no skin off my nose. –Pray do not look at me like that, silly chit,” she added with a sigh: “your mamma has writ me all about him, and of course I shall be pleased to receive him! Though I must admit that I feel some regret he has evidently not thought fit to bring that grandmother of his with the monkey.”

    “And the five black footmen!” gasped Hildy. She immediately related to Mrs Kernohan, with great relish, the saga of the contraband pines. Mrs Kernohan laughed so much she choked and Dorothea had to jump up and pat her on the back and ring—quite superfluously—for her maid.

    Dorothea herself had also laughed, but not as heartily. On recovering, her grandmamma looked at her quizzically and said: “Had you not heard that story, my dear?”

    “No: it—it was after we had gone home... Amabel did write me that the pinery had been re-stocked through Lady Georgina Claveringham’s kind offices,” she said limply. Hildy choked ecstatically. “Er—yes,” said Dorothea with a nervous smile.

    When Dorothea had gone up to the nursery to spend some time with Miss Catherine, the old lady noted sourly: “Well, I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve it, but both my daughters are mindless nullities and it looks as if the granddaughters are turning out the same way.”

    “She is very good-natured,” said Hildy weakly.

    Mrs Kernohan sniffed. “Aye, and very dull! Aurry is the best of the younger generation, I think,” she added with a sly look. “Hasn’t Hilary’s looks, nor his scholarship, but then he ain’t a dull prig, either.”

    “No,” said Hildy faintly, now very red.

    Mrs Kernohan gave another sniff, much fainter, and changed the subject.

    That evening, when Hildy and Dorothea were chatting in Dorothea’s room before retiring, Dorothea, going rather pink, said abruptly: “I do hope Grandmamma has not hurt your feelings by any sharp remark. Hildy. She does not mean anything by it. She is very clever, of course, but—but sometimes she fails to understand that she may wound other persons’ feelings.”

    Hildy was disconcerted to find that she agreed with Dorothea on this point just as heartily as she did with the sharp-tongued old lady over Dorothea’s own nullity. But she hastened to assure her that she would not mind anything Mrs Kernohan said to her and in fact found her acidic quality a tonic.

    “Yes,” said Dorothea on a wistful note. “I know Aurry feels the same... And Dorian just laughs, of course: he laughs at everything. But— Well, we love her, of course!”

    “Of course,” said Hildy, smiling a little. But rather wishing the subject of Major Aurelius Kernohan had not come up again.

    Lord Lucas duly came to call, with a large bunch of flowers, which had undoubtedly cost him a fortune at this season. Mrs Kernohan did not leave the young pair alone, as in many things she still kept to the strict conventions of her girlhood. But privily she said to Hildy after he had taken his leave: “Well, he will do for her, I suppose. He seems a decent lad. Not like that other scoundrel: I told her mother— But then, I was not very well at the time, and saw very little of him, or indeed of Dorothea. And I doubt anything I could have said would have weighed with Wilhelmina, in any case.”

    “No. Well, thank God for Waterloo,” said Hildy on a grim note.

    Mrs Kernohan patted her arm. “Aye. Be very clear in your own mind, my dear, before you decide a man is right for you.”

    Hildy went very red. “Yes.”

    The old lady sighed. “And even then... Life is a gamble, Hildy, my dear. Try not to expect too much from it.”

    “No,” she whispered.

    Mrs Kernohan looked at her kindly. She knew that whatever she might say, Hildy would go on expecting too much of life. Well, it was Nature’s way, to give young things these high expectations...

    She said no more on this topic but began to speculate, in a kindly way, and as if she had been the most conventional grandmother in the world, on when Hildy’s sisters’ wedding dates would be set for, and when it might be suitable for Dorothea and Lord Lucas to celebrate their own nuptials, and so forth. Hildy didn’t listen very much. But she felt comforted by the quiet chat, as the clever old lady was entirely aware.

    The next morning dawned fine and they all three took their usual promenade to the Pump Room for Mrs Kernohan to take the waters and Hildy, prompted by her hostess, to do likewise. Mrs Kernohan had assured her it wouldn’t do her much harm, and there was always the possibility that it might do her some good. But as for herself, it was not worth her life to refuse to drink ’em, for as sure as she missed a day, it would be the day that her daughter Maria or Henry’s wife would be there to spot her! Or, rather, she had added, laughing like a girl, to spot her absence! Hildy had also laughed and had—rather shyly, at that point, for she had not been quite sure of the quality of her hostess’s mind—ventured that she would do as Mrs Kernohan suggested, and was it not said that misery enjoyed company? Whereat Mrs Kernohan had laughed until she had to wipe her eyes, informing her that she wished she could get that tiresome Dr Spratt to prescribe a dose of Hildegarde Maddern in place of the waters and the other poisons he made her take.

    General Lowell was the first of their expected cicisbei to present himself, hurrying forward to greet them on their arrival, puffing.

    Hildy could not forebear to wonder, and not for the first time, how he had ever got upon his horse. But Roland Kernohan, laughing very much, had assured her he must have, there was a whacking great portrait of him, on it, hanging in the stairwell in his house. And the scarlet coat of his uniform looked really something against the puce brocade of the wall-hangings of the hall, Miss Hildy could take his word for it! Hildy had countered this one by saying darkly: “Armchairs”, and had gasped when a deep voice had said from behind her, while Roly was still looking puzzled: “On the contrary, Miss Hildegarde, it is extremely difficult for even the most enterprising of military men to sit astride upon an armchair.” Aurry had come up behind them, unobserved. Hildy had looked at him somewhat guiltily: after all he was one of the heroes of Waterloo, and perhaps might not really care to have silly young girls mock at military men. But then Aurry had completely confounded her by adding deeply, as straight-faced as ever Paul Ainsley had managed to be: “Kitchen stools, Miss Hildegarde.” And Roly had given a shout of laughter and cried: “By George! Ain’t he the most complete hand?” Hildy, choking helplessly, had had to concede he was.

    Today General Lowell was not of course in his scarlet coat, for he had been retired from active service for some time, but in the normal gentleman’s wear of a cutaway coat, waistcoat and pantaloons. He was wearing Hessian boots with the latter, like a town beau, and though they were exceeding well-polished boots with large gold tassels on them, on the stout old general they did not have quite the dashing effect they did on—well, Sir Julian Naseby or Sir Noël Amory, to name but two. Or on Major Kernohan, to name a third. As for the effect of the pantaloons, which were of course very tight, and also very yellow, Hildy refused to contemplate this. Hysterics in the Pump Room would not have done at all!

    The General was looking very pleased with himself, and though it was true he normally looked pleased with himself, today there was a sort of glow about him that was not usually present. Or Hildy, at least, had not heretofore remarked it. There was a fair-sized posy in his buttonhole, too, and his neckcloth was very high—given the chins, it was high: on a young fellow like Roland Kernohan you would probably not have noticed it. He was very much scented, but then he always was.

    After an exchange of greetings which were polite on their part and fulsomely welcoming on his, he invited them all warmly to a little supper party, with cards. He was a widower, but a faded sister lived with him and it was to be presumed this lady would play hostess for him, as usual. She was not on his arm today, but then he rarely took her into company.

    Mrs Kernohan accepted for them all with great composure: she knew that the General did not hold late parties. When he had bowed himself off, with a series of odd creaks, to procure two glasses of the famous waters, she said to Hildy with a naughty twinkle in her shrewd eye: “Faith, my love, you have made another conquest. I swear the silly man is wearing a corset!”

    Dorothea gasped and turned puce.

    “Of course! The creaks!” gasped Hildy.

    “Lud, and I ever thought the creature was devoted to my poor self,” sighed Mrs Kernohan wickedly in the accents of her girlhood.

    “Stop it, dear Mrs Kernohan!” choked Hildy. “He will return at any minute, and it will not do if I am having hysterics when he does.”

    Mrs Kernohan chuckled, but said: “Well, am I not right? The corset must prove it, you know! –Oops, here he comes!”

    The General came up puffing with the glasses. Of course: the extra loudness of today’s puffing must be the result of the corset, thought Hildy, eyeing him in fascination. With more fulsome compliments, he showed the three ladies to seats. He himself did not sit but stood before them, beaming fulsomely and showering them with more compliments, but most especially Hildy. She did her best to respond politely but unencouragingly, whilst wondering madly if it was that he could not sit down at all, in his corset?

    “Ah: here is Dorian,” said Mrs Kernohan with what was suspiciously like a sigh of relief, after this had gone on for some time and the General had reached the stage of assuring Hildy, with a lachrymose look but still a sort of shining hopefulness about him, that he was a lonely old warhorse, though not, he did not think he was flattering himself in saying, quite totally out to pasture yet, ho, ho. Hildy had reached the stage of eyeing him with a horrid fascination and Dorothea had reached the stage of eyeing him in simple horror, as it dawned that he actually— No! Surely not?

    Dorian, of course, was all that was pleasant and graceful in both appearance and manner; a greater contrast than that between him and the old general could hardly have been imagined. Especially as he also was wearing a blue coat, neat waistcoat, yellow pantaloons and Hessian boots.

    It was not very long at all before he had taken in the situation. His shrewd eyes twinkled and he bowed very low and said: “By Jove, General Lowell, you are taking the shine out of all of us fellows today!”

    Hildy turned her face away and clenched her fists desperately.

    The General preened himself, assuring Dorian that young cubs such as he must not expect to have it all their own way, and he knew a pretty face and neat ankle when he saw ’em!

    “Indeed, General, you can still teach these boys a thing or two, I am sure,” said Mrs Kernohan without a tremor. “Dorian, my dear, pray take Miss Hildy for a little stroll round the room: her mamma has assured me she will benefit from gentle exercise.”

    Dorian led her away forthwith: he could see she was about to lose her gravity. “Can you hold it in till we are out of the old boy’s sight?” he said politely.

     Hildy made a strangled noise.

    “Quick, here is Aurry and Roly: they may form a screen—stand behind us, dear lads, dear Miss Hildy is about to explode!” he said, as Hildy promptly did.

    “Oh!” she gasped at last, wiping her eyes. “I could strangle you, Mr Dorian!”

    “Really?” he said, grinning. “I should have thought, from the quality of his compliments, that it would rather have been old Lowell whom you would wish to strangle!”

     A cloud gathered on Aurry’s brow. “What?

    “It was not so very bad,” said Hildy weakly. “Quite funny, really. Absurd. And I truly do not think I would have laughed at the silly old creature, had not Mr Dorian overset me by assuring him that he is outshining all the fuh-fellows today.” She had to swallow. “He—he has got himself up very—very sprucely, you see, Major Kernohan. With a nosegay in his buttonhole!” She smiled timidly: Major Kernohan was not laughing.

    Dorian wrinkled his nose. “Drenched in scent. Paying Miss Hildy the most elaborate homage you have ever heard, Aurry. –No, really, old fellow, do not look like that! You would have laughed, had you heard him!”

    “Would I?” he said on a grim note.

    “Weil, neat ankles was mentioned in my hearing,” explained Dorian, looking sly.

    “I say!” said Roly indignantly. “That is coming it a bit strong!”

    “Is it? Before that it was something about faces like snowdrops—was it snowdrops or snowdrifts?” he said to Hildy. “And hearts as pure as the driven snow to go with ’em, was it not?”

    “Good grief, the fellow is gaga!” decided Roly in disgust.

    Aurry bit his lip.

    “Yes. In especial as it was snowdrops, not drifts, Mr Dorian: many snowdrops, as you may not have remarked, have green spots upon them,” said Hildy drily.

    Dorian and Aurry both choked, though Aurry still looked very displeased. Roly continued to look disgusted at the quality of General Lowell’s rhetoric.

    “And if you should wish to wash your fairy hand, Miss Hildy, after having it drooled over like that, I’m sure we shall all quite understand,” said Dorian airily.

    “Well, it is beyond the pale!” spluttered Roly, turning puce.

    “Drooled?” said Aurry grimly.

    Hildy swallowed. “Mr Dorian exaggerates. Merely, he would take my glass, seeing that I had finished the beastly stuff, and then he—he would not let go.”

    “I wonder that my grandmother did not stop him,” said Aurry stiffly, his lean cheeks rather flushed. “And I can only say that I apologize for it, Miss Hildegarde.”

    “Don’t be a fool, Aurry: the old lady was enjoyin’ every minute of it,” drawled Dorian.

    Aurry’s long mouth tightened.

    “Yes, I—I am afraid she was, Major Kernohan,” admitted Hildy. “She has such a keen sense of humour. And it was not so very— Well, I confess I did not precisely enjoy it when he held my hand, but—”

    “I should think not!” cried Roly angrily. “Dirty old—” He broke off, under the Major’s eye.

    “But the compliments were—were merely silly. Fulsome and—and dreadfully unoriginal,” said Hildy on a weak note.

    “Well, yes! I mean to say!” said Roly in disgust: “Fairy hands? Hearts as pure as the driven snow?”

    Dorian eyed him mockingly. “‘My heart does burn’—‘hair of auburn’?” he murmured. “‘Me do not spurn’—er—‘for thee I yearn’?”

    “That was shown you in confidence!” cried the poet, very red.

    Annoyed though he had been, Aurry at this point could not resist saying: “Was it? It was shown me in confidence, too.”

    “You fellows are impossible!” cried the poet desperately.

    “Yes, they are,” said Hildy, giving a strangled cough. “It was a—a very sweet poem, Mr Roland, and—and with lovely bows and lavender!”

    Aurry abruptly broke down and laughed helplessly.

    “I put the lavender in my handkerchief drawer, it was a very thoughtful gesture!” cried Hildy crossly. “Stop laughing, Major!”

    Aurry continued to whoop.

    “Lavender?” said Dorian feebly.

    Roly, very red, just glared.

    “Yes! Dried!” said Hildy crossly. “To match the lavender bows! –Stop it!” –Dorian had joined Aurry in his hysterics.

    “We shall not regard them, Mr Roly,” said Hildy to him firmly. “Pray give me your arm and—and we shall take a little promenade.”

    Roly gave her his arm with a grateful look that had little to do with the fact of being favoured over his elders, and they walked away from the disgraced pair.

    “I must say,” said Aurry weakly at last, “that I feel better for that! Poor Miss Hildegarde: dried lavender and lavender bows to go with the ‘burn’—‘spurn’—‘auburn’ nonsense!”

    “Aye, well, he is young,” said Dorian, grinning. “He’ll learn.”

    “Either that or he will still be paying inappropriate compliments when he is eighty-odd,” the Major noted pointedly.

    “Now, look, Aurry—” He put his hand on his brother’s sleeve.

    “For God’s sake, Dorian, could you not have stopped the horrid old fellow?”

    “Er—well, no: take a better man than me. Well, he is a senior officer and all that.”

    Aurry shook him off crossly.

    “Look, Aurry, it was nothing, the old fellow is just—well, overcome by Miss Hildy’s charms!” He laughed a little. “Ain’t we all?”

    “Yes, apparently to the degree of forgetting we are gentlemen,” said Aurry grimly, stalking away from him.

    Dorian shook his head sadly. Poor old Aurry: the arm must be bothering him today. Would never get him to admit it, though.

    Mrs Kernohan generally took a chair home from the Pump Room and today Aurry escorted her home, walking beside the chair. He attempted to point out the error of her ways in not having halted the General’s flow. Not to say not having stopped him from fondling Miss Hildegarde’s hand.

    Mrs Kernohan merely returned drily: “It’s beyond my powers to stop him in his flow, Aurry: he is greatly taken with her. And why not? She is a dainty little piece.”

    “Grandmother!” he said angrily.

    Mrs Kernohan leaned forward and gave him a hard look. “Very well, Aurry, what are you going to do about it?”

    The Major’s long mouth tightened. He did not reply. And in truth, Mrs Kernohan had not expected him to. She at least had realized, if the rest of the family had not, that Waterloo and the wound to his arm, to say nothing of the subsequent sudden loss of his career, had been a great shock to her grandson’s constitution. And though he might be ready enough to flirt amiably with pretty, bright little Hildy, he was by no means ready to make any sort of decision that might affect the rest of his life. It was a pity, for they would probably suit well enough—but there it was.

    To no-one’s surprise, Lord Lucas Claveringham volunteered to escort Mrs O’Flynn on the first stage of her journey home. Lord Lucas was riding alongside, and as they were accompanied also by Miss Catherine’s nurse and by one of Mr Henry Kernohan’s grooms, not to say by Mrs Kernohan’s coachman, there was little fear that anyone would perceive anything indelicate about the thing.

    Miss Tarragona Kernohan had volunteered to come for the first stage, and had been withered by her grandmamma’s telling her she was a gaby and that she was not to expect her, Mrs Kernohan’s, support in any scheme to bring her out before she had turned eighteen. And gained some sense—if that were possible.

    Hildy had to bite her lip: poor Tarry looked so mortified, and as if she could sink through her grandmamma’s fine Persian carpet! Dorothea had been quite right about the effect of their grandmother’s sharp remarks.

    So she said kindly: “Perhaps you would care to accompany me on a walk instead, Tarry?”

    Tarry was evidently torn between a desire to remain in the sulks forever and a day for having been reproved by her grandmother, and immense gratification at having her idol offer her a few crumbs from her bounteous table. Gratification won, and she accepted, face now all smiles. Fortunately she was unaware that Hildy looked at the round, ingenuous face and could not prevent herself from thinking, in the first place, that it would be a dead bore, and in the second place, that it was a dreadful pity that none of Mrs Kernohan’s descendants seemed to have inherited her splendid bone structure apart from Mr Parkinson. Though she had not yet seen the older son, Dorothea’s Uncle Francis, or either of his daughters, for their home was in another part of the country.

    Having waved the carriage off, Hildy and Tarragona duly set forth. Hildy was in an autumnal outfit that both her mamma and Miss Maddern had both had doubts about, but which Amabel had declared would be ravishing on her: a bronzy-green wool pelisse trimmed with ruched velvet in a reddish-brown shade, almost a chestnut colour, with a matching bronzy-green bonnet trimmed with more ruched velvet and bows of a darker green satin, the whole completed by a small fox-fur muff. Tarry expressed unalloyed admiration of the picture she made, so possibly Amabel was correct and it was ravishing on her.

    Hildy merely returned dubiously: “I feel odd in these shades: they are more what my second sister is accustomed to wear.”

    “Yes: Amabel!” said Tarry eagerly. “The one who is going to marry Dorothea’s Uncle Liam!”

    “Er—yes,” said Hildy weakly, not having realized that Tarry had absorbed so much of their immediate family history. And feeling a very odd sensation of now being in some way irrevocably connected to the busy, happy Kernohan flock—how absurd!

    Tarry then questioned her eagerly about her sisters’ plans for their wedding gowns but unfortunately Hildy, not having listened when this topic was discussed, could not enlighten her on the matter.

    “Oh,” she said, face falling. “Well, when will Mr O’Flynn and Miss Amabel be married: is it decided yet?”

    Hildy swallowed a sigh. How right Mrs Kernohan was about her female descendants! Not that they were any different from any other females, of course. But that was in some sort the point. “They hope in April,” she said politely. “Amabel does not care for another Season in London.”

    “I would go if l were married or not!” cried Miss Tarragona in amaze.

    “I am sure,” said Hildy drily. “But my sister does not care for the hurly-burly of town life.”

    Tarry looked thoughtful. “Do you, Hildy?”

    “Sometimes it is agreeable,” replied Hildy, also looking thoughtful. “It is pleasant to be at a ball in a pretty gown and know one is looking one’s best—always provided that one may expect to have an agreeable partner to dance with!” she ended with a tiny laugh.

    “Of course. Roly says it is the same with gentlemen, for sometimes  one is landed with a positive dogface and then it ruins one’s entire evening.”

    “Absolutely!” gasped Hildy. “Poor Mr Roland: do the hostesses often present him with the dogfaces?”

    Tarry nodded. “Yes. He has very little backbone you see.”

    Hildy was also of that opinion, so she made no attempt to reprove her.

    “I suppose I should not have said that,” admitted Tarry, reddening.

    “I shan’t repeat it,” replied Hildy mildly. “Neither of my brothers has much backbone, I suppose. Though they generally solve the problem of dogfaces at dances by refusing to go at all.”

    “Yes, Dorothea says they are much interested in country pursuits! And that Mr Tom is a great fisherman!”

    “Yes,” said Hildy weakly. The child had evidently catalogued every reference, however tiny, ever made in her hearing about the Maddern family.

    “Dorian does not care for fishing or hunting, but Roly hunts,” said Miss Tarragona informatively.

    “Yes, I had heard that Mr Roland was very keen in the hunting field.”

    Tarry nodded and imparted Roly’s opinion—verbatim, apparently—of the great new hunter Papa had bought him. Hildy was a trifle shocked to find herself speculating on how wealthy Mr Henry Kernohan was, if he could buy hunters for his third son just like that. Oh, dear: she was getting as bad as—as the rest of them! Next she would be reflecting that Tarragona would do nicely for Tom and—and making plans according! Actually, she probably would, she was the sort of round-faced little creature he appeared to—

    Hildy took a deep breath. Hildegarde Maddern, she said sternly in her head: your brain is turning to mush!

    Possibly in order to counter the mush, she then turned firmly for the Abbey.

    “We are not going in here, are we?” gasped Tarry, when it finally dawned where her idol had led her.

    “I am. But if you do not care for it, you may wait outside. Dorothea does not care for the Abbey, and Mrs Kernohan, I suppose, is used to it, so I have not had the opportunity to look at it properly.”

    “I don’t think Mamma would like me to wait outside,” she faltered. “Not by myself.”

    “Oh. Well, I can leave it for another day, I suppose,” said Hildy resignedly.

    Tarry went very red and suddenly took her hand, squeezing it convulsively. “No! If you wish to, we shall! But I shan’t be able to tell you anything about it, Hildy.”

    Hildy produced a small book from her muff. “No, but I think perhaps this will! Come along, then. If you get bored, perhaps you could just sit quietly: would that be ineligible?”

    “No, that would be all right, I think.”

    They went in, Tarry still grasping Hildy’s hand.

    Like many of the genteel inhabitants of Bath, the Henry Kernohans not infrequently attended service in the Abbey. At such times, of course, the scene would be very busy, and Miss Tarragona, in her best bonnet and a duly cowed frame of mind, knowing her mamma’s eye to be upon her, would in any case be more absorbed with the personalities, bonnets and pelisses of the congregation than with the architecture. Now, however, the great edifice was almost empty, apart from one or two persons, perhaps visitors to Bath like Hildy, gazing up into the nave, and no more than half a dozen silent seated presences absorbed in prayer or perhaps in contemplation. The effect was sombre and impressive, and Tarry held Hildy’s gloved hand very tightly.

    Hildy took a deep breath and looked up. Her soul soared—though it was to be feared this was the effect of the architecture, and not of any religious impulse.

    They walked slowly round for some time, Hildy sometimes consulting the guidebook, sometimes reading a plaque, and more often just looking. Tarry was quite silent, overawed now more by Hildy’s attitude than by the atmosphere of the place.

    Finally Hildy paused by a pillar and, after gazing in silence up into the nave for a while, looked round at her companion and said with a smile: “Are your feet beginning to ache?”

    “Yes!” she hissed, nodding.

    Hildy smiled and murmured: “Then we shall—” She broke off with a little gasp.

   Tarry turned her head in surprise to see what had attracted her attention. “Oh!” she gulped.

    “Does he often come here?” murmured Hildy.

    One of the silent, dark presences had risen from its seat and come out into the aisle, to reveal itself as Major Aurelius Kernohan.

    “I don’t know!” hissed Tarry. “Oh, dear, perhaps he—he has been praying for Madeleine—I think we should go, Hildy, quick!”

    Hildy realized his little sister must mean the Major’s dead wife: she nodded.

    But it was too late; the Major had seen them, and with an expression of amused surprize on his lean, dark face was coming up to them.

    “Good day, Miss Hildegarde,” he said quietly, lips twitching. “Never tell me you are attempting to instil a reverence for great architecture into this dizzy head?”

    Tarry forgot herself, not to say where she was, and hissed: “Aurry, you are a beast!”

    Aurry looked at her thoughtfully. Tarragona squirmed, turning a violent puce. “Sorry!” she gasped.

    “Yes, well, we are all more or less beasts,” he said without emphasis.—Hildy looked at him in shock.—“Do you find the Abbey very fine, Miss Hildegarde?” he added smoothly.

    Hildy could see—though she could not see why—that he was mocking her for an empty-headed Miss, taking the usual visitor’s tour of the sights of Bath without more thought in her head than to be able to say Oh, yes, she had visited Bath Abbey and it was very fine! She replied angrily, though very quietly: “No, Major Kernohan, I do not find it very fine, I find the whole experience utterly beyond any definition, certainly the usual easy one of ‘very fine’—though I do not expect you to believe that!”

    He looked at her with an arrested expression in his eyes. “I see. I beg your pardon.”

    “Not at all,” said Hildy grimly, nostrils flared.

    Suddenly he gave her a genuine smile and said simply: “I love it, too. I often come here during the day when it is almost empty. I would not call myself a Christian man, exactly, but... Would it be an easy definition if I were to say I find it has a healing effect on the soul?”

    “Not if you truly mean it,” said Hildy, flushed but determined.

    Aurry smiled a little but before he could say anything more Tarry burst out: “What do you mean, you are not a Christian man, Aurry?”

    Aurry’s eyes met Hildy’s for a rueful instant. “Mm,” he said. “Come along, Miss,” he added to his sister, “I dare say I can find a pastry shop that may satisfy your metaphysical wants.”

    Hildy gulped.

    “I am not a child!” retorted Tarry angrily, “and I meant it seriously!”

    “Oh, dear,” he said, biting his lip. “Er, well, pray do not repeat this to any of them at home, Tarry.”

    “No, I won’t. Go on.”

    Aurry looked helplessly at Hildy.

    “You should not have said it, if you did not wish to be questioned on the point.” she noted detachedly.

    “No,” he muttered, rubbing his chin. “Er—well,” he said uncomfortably to the innocent eyes of not-yet-seventeen: “it is just that when a fellow has—has knocked about a bit and—and I suppose, been knocked about a bit by—by life, he—um—does not tend to think of—of God, and church worship, and such things in quite the way we were taught in the schoolroom.”

    “Oh.”

    Hildy had listened to his explanation with great interest—though not without a touch of malice, wondering how he would manage to say anything that would make sense to the girl. Now she said thoughtfully: “Yes. One may still believe in some sort of a life-force and even in the concept of the soul, without necessarily attaching them to any sort of Christian ritual.”

    “Do you believe in souls, Hildy?” asked Tarry with a frown.

    Hildy replied simply: “I don’t know, Tarry. When I am in a great religious edifice such as this, I think I can feel the presence of generations of souls all around me. And when I am out in the middle of a field all by myself I find it impossible to believe that we do not have some sort of spiritual essence that is capable of perceiving the wonders of created nature and—and which may survive in some form, after us.”

    “In church they make you say you believe in the resurrection of the body,” she noted dubiously.

    Hildy saw that the Major’s lean face had taken on an expression of—it was more than distaste, it was perilously near revulsion: the poor man must be thinking of the mutilations he had witnessed on the battlefield. She said briskly: “I do not believe in that at all. I think there are many aspects of religion as we know it today that have survived from the days when most people lived in ignorance, poverty and fear, and had to be told reassuring stories by their priests in order to make their lives at all bearable and to give them something to hope for in the future.”

    Tarry just gaped at her.

    Hildy took her hand again. “Come along, shall we go and find that pastry shop? If you like, I could tell you about the sorts of gods and goddesses whom people worship in India, just as fervently as any Christians worship our God.”

    Tarry accompanied her obediently. “I should like that. –I should never have said you were not a Christian woman, Hildy.”

    Aurry had ranged alongside Hildy at her other elbow. “Nor I,” he noted wryly.

    “Most people are full of prejudices and preconceived notions,” said Hildy calmly. “I must own, I would not have thought to wonder whether perhaps you were not a Christian man, Major Kernohan.”

    “No. Er—well, tell us about—it is the Hindoo pantheon you mean, I suppose?” Hildy nodded and he said with interest: “How do you come to know about that, Miss Hildegarde?”

    “Well, I am not illiterate!” she said with a laugh. “No, well, I had a read of it, a little, but then when we went to stay in the neighbourhood of Dittersford—” She began to tell them about Mrs Urqhart and her Indian servants and curios, and of the volumes she had borrowed from the library of the legendary Pumps Urqhart.

    The two of them listened with great attention. Miss Tarragona, it was quite clear, was far more entranced by the tales of elephants and camels and extraordinarily delicious sweetmeats than she was by any facts about the Hindoo pantheon Hildy saw fit to impart—and this, to say truth, was rather a relief to Hildy: she did not in the least want to figure in the Henry Kernohans’ eyes as the woman who had swayed their youngest daughter’s feet from the paths of righteousness!

    It was not so clear which aspects of her narrative entranced Major Aurelius Kernohan: his dark face gave very little away. Hildy was not even sure, indeed, that anything at all she said was new to him.

    He left them to run an errand after the visit to the pastry shop. His little sister looked after his tall figure and said: “It is my belief he was praying for Madeleine, though he would not admit it.”

    “No-o... I think he would not tell a lie, Tarry, and if he said he was not a Christian man then he would not have been exactly praying. But the peace and quiet of the Abbey are—are very conducive to quiet meditation, and very probably he was thinking about her.”

    Tarry sighed. “Yes. –I can’t remember her very much, I was only eight when she drowned,” she confided.

    Perhaps not unnaturally, Hildy had assumed that the Major’s young wife must have died in childbirth. Which was tragic enough. But— “Drowned?” she echoed faintly.

    “Yes. It was very tragic. Papa says that Aurry blames himself, but if you ask him, there was no-one but herself to blame, she was ever a wilful piece.”

    “Oh,” said Hildy, swallowing.

    “They were staying with his in-laws. Her family live by the sea and she was always used to sail a boat, just like her brothers. But on this particular day, Aurry said she should not, because the wind was very strong and she was with child. But she disobeyed him. Prosy says they used to have awful fights,” she explained by the by.

    Hildy could not imagine Miss Kernohan using those words, but she nodded numbly.

    “And she took the boat out all by herself and an awful storm blew up and she was drowned. It was two days before her body was washed ashore,” reported Tarry detachedly.

    “Tarry, how dreadful!” gasped Hildy.

    “Yes, I suppose it was. I remember Mamma cried a lot. That’s all I remember, really. I don’t really remember how it happened, I only know all that because I’ve heard the others speak of it.”

    “Yes. So—so he lost his wife and—and his unborn child?” said Hildy through trembling lips.

    “Yes. –It was a long time ago, Hildy, he’s over it, really,” she said quickly, seeing the look on her face.

    Hildy did not think that that was the sort of thing one truly got over. At first she had thought she was over losing Dr Rogers, but by now she had realized she had not. It hurt less, but to say she had got over it would be a gross exaggeration. And if it were your wife, how much worse! However, she said quietly: “Yes.”

    Tarry took her hand. “Come along, Hildy, you mustn’t stand about, you might catch a chill.”

    “Er—of course,” said Hildy weakly, as Miss Tarragona began to lead her briskly along the pavement.

    When Tarry had gone home, having regaled her grandmamma with a rather fuller account of the expedition than Hildy would have said was either wise or desirable, and having had for her pains a volume of comparative theology from Mrs Kernohan’s extensive library forced upon her, Hildy picked up a book, but then sank into a reverie.

    Mrs Kernohan also picked up a book, but from time to time she glanced at her guest with a wry expression on her face.

    Finally Hildy said with a sigh: “What a sad life your oldest grandson has had, Mrs Kernohan.”

    There was a rather odd silence.

    “Do you not think so?” ventured Hildy in astonishment.

    “Sad enough, if you mean Aurry.”

    “Yes,” said Hildy, staring at her. “He is the oldest, is he not?”

    Mrs Kernohan sighed. “He is now, my dear, yes. Francis’s two boys were older than he. John died at Trafalgar and Sidney, Francis’s older boy, at Badajoz.”

    Hildy cringed, even though there was no way the old lady could have known about Uncle Harry’s involvement in the latter engagement on the wrong side. She was sure, in fact that Mrs Maddern did not even know. “I am very sorry,” she said faintly.

    Mrs Kernohan sighed. “Yes. Well, these things happen. And we have always been a military family.”

    Hildy nodded mutely.

    “Oh, well, there is no sense in repining,” said Mrs Kernohan. “And Francis intends to make Aurry his heir, now. Though I beg you will not mention that, my dear, it is not generally known in the family as yet.”

    “No, of course,” said Hildy. “That—that seems sensible... Though of course he must be Mr Henry’s heir.”

    The old lady looked dry. “Francis don’t approve of Dorian. Well, I can’t say that I do myself, the boy’s pleasant enough, but naught but a fribble. It will work out well enough: Dorian may take over what would otherwise have been Aurry’s, and it will make it easier for Henry to provide for Roly and the girls.”

    “Yes, of course: I see,” agreed Hildy, involuntarily thinking again of Mr Roland’s horses.

    “In fact, we expect Francis daily. I think you have not met him, my dear?”

    “No, although Dorothea has spoken of her Uncle Francis,” said Hildy, smiling.

    “Mm. Well, he ain’t a bad sort. For a soldier.”

    This was not at all the way in which a doating mamma might have been expected to speak of her elder son, of course, but as Hildy was by now fully aware that the old lady was no doating mamma, she merely smiled at her.

    Mrs Kernohan returned to her book, and Hildy also returned to hers, but soon her hostess perceived that she was not reading it. “Life is not all pleasant walks, concerts and flummery, is it?” she said drily.

    Hildy jumped. “No!” she gasped. “That is precisely what I— You are so percipient, Mrs Kernohan!”

    “Mm. Well, I’m glad you have enjoyed yourself playing off your pretty tricks with my three grandsons.”—Hildy went very red.—“And I can see as well as the next woman there’s nothing in it. Or better than the next woman, if she be Henry’s fool of a wife!” she said with a chuckle. “But we cannot float along on the surface of life as a permanent thing, my dear.”

    “No, I do know that,” said Hildy in a stifled voice.

    “Mm.”

    There was a pause.

    “You are feeling better generally, my dear, though, are you not?” she said on a gentler note.

    Hildy smiled. “Yes. So much better. I think those first few quiet weeks with you were just what I needed!”

    “Aye. Well, I thought you must be pretty well your old self, else you would scarcely have favoured Aurry with a lecture on the Hindoo pantheon!”

    “No.” said Hildy in stifled voice, turning scarlet and biting her lip. “How—how very true.”

     Mrs Kernohan noted drily: “He’s read every volume I have in the house, you know. Most of ’em before he was twenty.”

    “Dear Mrs Kernohan, don’t,” said Hildy, biting her lip. “I am already feeling fifty kinds of a fool!”

    Mrs Kernohan at this frankly laughed. “He’ll have enjoyed it, little goose! I doubt there’s another Miss in Bath who could hold forth on such a subject!’

    “I just pray Tarry does not mention it to her mamma,” said Hildy in a hollow voice.

   Mrs Kernohan eyed her drily. “Have no fear: in the unlikely case she does, and her mother listens, Aurry will no doubt gallantly take the blame. He’s like that.” she explained airily. “Demned irritating trait, I have always thought it.” She eyed her sideways. “Only to a woman of independent mind, however.”

    “Oh!” cried Hildy. “You are the most infuriating woman!” She bounced up, gave her a hearty buss on the cheek, and ran out of the room, laughing.

    Mrs Kernohan looked after her quizzically. “Aye, well, the bubble had to burst,” she noted.

    Perhaps the bubble had burst. Certainly Hildy found she could not think of Major Kernohan in quite the same carefree manner as she had hitherto—could not, in fact, couple him carelessly with Dorian and Roland in her mind as just the three pleasant Kernohan brothers. She did not, however, wish to think of him as apart from the other two, and was rather glad that her stay in Bath was soon coming to an end: there was only a week left, now, and then Gaetana and Paul would come to collect her in the Manor’s carriage.

    The last week of her stay, however, was to be rather eventful and to leave Hildy with a somewhat ambiguous feeling about her Bath interlude that autumn.