The Spanish Cousins Arrive

4

The Spanish Cousins Arrive

    “LOOK!” screamed Floss, nose pressed to the parlour window.

    “It must be the Spanish cousins, after all!” gasped Marybelle, as a huge coach laden with baggage drew up outside their front door.

    “No, it’ll be some traveller who’s lost his way, nothing exciting ever happens to us,” said Hildy glumly, but coming to peer over their shoulders nonetheless. “And Mamma hasn’t heard further from Uncle Harry; I suppose he’s changed his mind again.”

    “It is, it is!” cried Floss, jigging with excitement, as a man jumped down from the box and let down the steps of the coach and an enormously fat woman in voluminous skirts got down.

    “She doesn’t look very Spanish,” said Marybelle dubiously.

    “What do Spanish people look like?” asked Hildy on a scornful note.

    Marybelle ignored this and pressed her nose to the window. “Look: two children!” she squeaked as a boy and a girl with curly red hair as carroty as her own got out. The girl was minus a bonnet, so they could see her hair quite clearly.

    “It’s the twins, it’s the twins, it IS them!” shouted Floss. She whirled away from the window and rushed from the room.

    “Help, I think they may be, that hair’s just like yours,” said Hildy, swallowing. “What on earth shall we do? If only Mamma or Christa were home!”

    “You’re not scared of them, are you?” demanded Marybelle, staring at her.

    Hildy went very red. “No, of course not.”

    “Well, I am not,” she said stoutly.

    “Go and say hullo, then,” retorted Hildy, scowling.

    There was a short pause.

    “It may not be them,” said Marybelle without conviction.

    Floss had hurled the front door open and rushed down the garden path. “Hullo!” she panted.

    “Hullo,” said the girl.

    “Hullo,” said the boy.

    “Are you the twins?” she gasped.

    “Yes,” they agreed.

    “Which one are you?” asked the girl.

    “Florabelle. You’re Elinor, aren’t you?”

    “Yes, but everyone calls her Bunch,” said the boy, giving her a bit of a push.

    “He’s Bungo!” she said with a loud giggle, pushing him back.

    “That’ll do,” said the man who had been on the box.

     Floss looked at him dubiously. He looked a bit like Hildy, but he didn’t match up with anyone that the Ainsleys had written Mamma about. “Who are you?”

    “I’m Jake, Missy,” he said with a grin. “And this here’s Berthe: she don’t speak much English. “—Dis bonjour à la petite, elle s’appelle Florabelle,” he said to her.

    “Florabelle! Quel joli nom!” she approved. “Bonjour, ma petite!” She enveloped the horrified Floss in a hug and gave her a smacking kiss.

    “Ugh,” she said, wiping her cheek with her hand and retreating.

    “She does that a lot,” agreed Bunch.

    “It’s foul, isn’t it?” said Bungo.

    “Yes. Did you cross the Channel on a big ship?”

    The twins immediately plunged into a description of their epic voyage.

    Paul got out of the coach, smiling, and turned to give Gaetana his hand. “This must be the youngest one, I think!” he said gaily.

    Gaetana nodded. “Hullo; I’m Gaetana,” she said.

    “Hullo, Gaetana, I’m Florabelle,” replied Floss composedly. “You can call me Floss.”

    “This is Paul,” added Gaetana.

    Floss looked at him narrowly. “Hullo,” she said warily.

    “Yes: I look very Spanish, do I not?” he said with a twinkle in his dark eyes.

    Floss nodded vigorously. “She looks just like Hildy, only Hildy’s eyes are sort of green!” she revealed.

    “Is that so?” said Paul with a kind smile.

    Floss, who after all was turned thirteen, was not immune to this smile. She gulped, nodding, and turned scarlet.

    “And this is Maria,” added Paul, turning to the coach and holding out his arms. “¡Venga, mi vida!” he said with a little laugh. Floss twitched, and goggled at him.

    A plumpish, dark girl in a very neat bonnet came nervously to the door of the coach. Paul put his hands on either side of her waist, and swung her down, disregarding the steps. She gasped. So did Floss.

    The girl was not very much taller than Floss herself, but she was evidently older—about Marybelle’s age. But she very evidently had nothing in common with Marybelle. Like Paul, she was very Spanish-looking, but also like Paul, very good-looking. And entirely without freckles. Floss looked at her glumly.

    “This is Maria,” said Paul in an encouraging voice.

    “Hullo, Maria,” said Floss glumly.

    “Hullo, Florabelle,” replied Maria in a small voice.

    “There! That was easy, wasn’t it?” said Paul with a chuckle.

    “Yes,” she said faintly.

    Gaetana came up beside them and put an arm round her sister’s shoulders. “She has never in her life spoken to anyone but the family in English,” she explained.

    “Help,” said Floss, goggling at her.

    “You’re the first,” explained Gaetana with a lurking twinkle.

    Floss looked very pleased. “You can call me Floss,” she said to Maria.

    “Thank you, Floss,” she said faintly.

    Bunch had ranged alongside, looking rather sulky, during this interchange. Now she said loudly: “I never speak to anyone in English either! Why’s she so special?”

    “Liar,” said Gaetana immediately.

    “Sí,” Paul agreed: “you spoke to every single English person on the packet, from the captain to the cabin-boy.”

    “They don’t count!” she cried, scowling.

    “Rubbish, of course they do,” said Gaetana.

    “Yes,” agreed Maria.

    “Anyway, you got that tense wrong,” added Gaetana detachedly.

    Floss clapped a hand to her mouth: she’d sounded just like Hildy!

    “What tense? I did not!” cried Bunch immediately.

    Bungo ranged alongside. “You said ‘I never speak to anyone’. It should be ‘I’ve never spoken to anyone’. Your English is rotten.”

    “It is NOT!” she cried angrily.

    “Assez! Assez, mes petits choux!” cried old Berthe. “Calmez-vous!”

    “Oui, oui: ça suffit; cessez de jacasser comme des perroquets—et fáItes descendre le perroquet!” said Paul, ending with a laugh.

    “Was that Spanish?” gasped Floss.

    “No, French, the twins have spent most of their lives in Belgium,” said Gaetana. “They mostly speak French with Berthe.”

    “Or flamand!” objected Bunch, as Bungo clambered into the coach again.

    “Yes, but you know Madre doesn’t like you to,” said Gaetana.

    “No,” agreed Maria.

    “Only because she doesn’t understand it!” said Bunch scornfully.

    “No. It is not a language of polite persons,” said Maria. Floss looked at her glumly. That neat bonnet had been a fair indicator. She’d probably get on well with Amabel.

    “Exactly,” Gaetana was agreeing.

    “Mme de Breuil is a polite person!” objected Bunch.

    “Yes. But most Bruxelloises are bilingual,” said Gaetana in rather a firm voice.

    Bunch might have replied to this; in fact she certainly looked as if she was going to, but at this moment Bungo reappeared at the open door of the carriage, grinning all over his round, freckled face and holding out a large, gilt cage in which was—

    “A parrot!” gasped Floss ecstatically.

    “Yes; he’s for you, Floss,” said Gaetana, smiling at her.

    “For me?” she gasped,

    “Yes,” agreed Bungo regretfully. “I’ll have him if you don’t like him!” he added eagerly.

    “Look out: he bites.” warned Bunch—thus explaining why there had been no fight over who was to faire descendre the bird.

    “Only if you’re stupid enough to put a finger in his cage!” grinned Bungo. “Il est formidable,” he said eagerly to Floss: “il jure comme un matelot! Je parie que t’aurais jamais entendu un oiseau pareil!” He beamed.

    “Speak English, Bungo,” Maria reproved him.

    “I wouldn’t!” choked Paul.

    “No, well, fortunately he mostly swears in French,” agreed Gaetana.

    “Does he?” gasped Floss, as Bungo handed him to her carefully. She took the cage with awe. The parrot was a big blue and yellow one. He looked at her with his wise eye, his head on one side. Floss turned puce. “You’re mine,” she said to him in a strangled voice.

    “Et voilà!” said Paul triumphantly. “Qu’est-ce je vous ai dit?”

    “Oui, oui, t’avais raison, mon chou,” agreed Berthe, nodding.

    “Aye, the ideal present for the young Missy,” agreed Jake, grinning, coming up to Floss’s shoulder. “Thought we were all speaking nothing but English?” he said to his employers, straight-faced.

    “Except Berthe,” agreed Maria seriously.

    “Aye,” he agreed, shoulders quivering slightly. “His name’s Pierrot, little Missy,” he said to Floss. “It’s a French name, it’s like saying Peterkin.”

    “Pierrot,” breathed Floss, eyes shining.

    “He’s a tropical bird: he’ll need to be kept in a fairly warm room, but not too hot, of course,” said Gaetana. “He has led a fairly rough life, he belonged to a sea-captain. But he isn’t used to your English climate.”

    “I’ll take him inside!” she decided.

    “Yes: come on!” cried Bungo, racing up the path. Bunch raced after him. They halted on the front steps and turned round, both jumping up and down impatiently.

    Floss followed slowly, holding the parrot aloft. “Hullo, Pierrot,” she said to it experimentally.

    “Salut à tous! Salut à tous!” he croaked—more or less. As Gaetana had already remarked, he had a very strong Parrot accent.

    Floss gasped.

    “Dis ‘Vive l’empereur!’” Bungo urged Perrot loudly, not ceasing to jump.

    “NO!” shouted Paul.

    Too late. “Vive l’empereur! Vive l’empereur! Vive l’empereur! Vive l’empereur!” cackled Pierrot.

    Paul groaned.

    “It is his best phrase,” Gaetana excused Pierrot.

    Paul groaned again. “How strange that the man who sold him to us did not reveal that fact!”

    “l expect that was why he was so eager to sell him,” said Maria seriously.

    Paul swooped on her and gave her a smacking kiss, crushing the bonnet somewhat. “l am very sure you are right, mon ange! –Come along: are we feeling brave?” he said to Gaetana with a gurgle of laughter.

    She glared.

    “What about Francisco?” ventured Maria, looking up at the figure huddled in rugs beside the stolid coachman.

    “Jake will look after him; no excuses!” said Paul merrily.

    “Why didn’t I die at birth? Or at least have the sense to throw myself off that boat?” wondered Gaetana.

    “Don’t say that sort of thing.” said Maria faintly.

    “I don’t think le bon Dieu will mind; if He sees everything He knows just how I’m feeling. –Can you get sea-sick on dry land?” she asked Paul.

    “No. And don’t say ‘le bon Dieu’. I mean, don’t speak French and don’t refer to le bon Dieu at all. –And that goes for you, too,” he said to Maria.

    “Yes: remember they’re all spawn of the Devil,” agreed Gaetana.

    Maria looked dubious. It was true that Floss looked as if she could be just as devilish as Bunch and Bungo, given half a chance, but… “Silly,” she said faintly.

    Over her head Paul gave the startled Gaetana a wink. “Ça marche,” he noted airily. He took Maria’s hand. “Come on: ‘Once more unto the breach, dear friends’!” He marched up the path, more or less dragging Maria. Gaetana followed, looking sick.

    In the front hall the twins had paused, for once in their lives. They looked at Floss.

    “In here,” she said, preceding them to the parlour. She went in, holding Pierrot aloft carefully and saying loudly, her face one big smile: “Look what they’ve given me! He’s called Pierrot and he’s really, truly for me!”

    “For you?” gasped Marybelle.

    “Yes. –He is truly just for me, isn’t he?” she said anxiously to the twins.

    “Yes. Paul said he had to be for you, because you’re the youngest,” agreed Bunch.

    “He got me a pocket-knife, because I’m the youngest, too,” agreed Bungo.

    “I’m the youngest as well!” objected his twin.

    “No, you’re not. –I’m an hour younger than her,” he explained to the company.

    Bunch was feeling in her reticule. “Yes. But he said that didn’t matter, twins count as one youngest. –Look!” she cried, holding up her prize.

    Marybelle gave a shriek and fell back.

    “Serpent! Serpent! Tue le serpent!” shouted Pierrot.

    “It’s only stuffed,” Bunch admitted regretfully.

    Hildy looked at it with interest. “Where did you get it, Elinor?”

    “Bunch. Elinor’s a silly name,” she said tersely. “Paul bought it from a stall on the quay at Ostend. He said I could have a pocket-knife, but I wanted the snake.”

    “I should think so!” she agreed.

    Bungo, Floss and Marybelle were admiring Pierrot. “We think his master trained him to recognize a snake and give warning,” he explained.

    “Is that what he said?” asked Marybelle.

    “Yes. Didn’t you understand?” he said, staring at her.

    “No,” she replied simply.

    “No,” agreed Floss.

    “Merde,” he said in fascination. “Well, he said ‘Kill the snake.’”

    “Isn’t he clever!” gasped Floss. “Clever boy, Pierrot!” she approved, beaming at him.

    “Vive l’empereur!”

    Hildy gave a startled gasp.

    “We never knew he could say that,” explained Bunch. “Paul said the man— Qu’est-ce qu’il a dit?” she asked her twin.

    “Eugh—qu’il nous avait roulés,” he replied.

    “En anglais!” she cried.

    “J’sais pas.”

    “He duped you,” said Hildy. “I suppose one can’t blame him, though.”

    “No, exactly,” agreed Bunch pleasedly.

    “Isn’t he wonderful?” said the besotted Floss.

    “Yes, wonderful. He’s a South American parrot, Floss,” said Hildy. She bent and peered at him. “Salut, Pierrot!” she squeaked hoarsely.

    “Salut, Pierrot! Salut, Pierrot! Vive l’empereur! Tue le serpent!” he croaked in his Parrot accent.

    “He likes you,” decided Bunch.

    “He can say more words,” revealed Bungo.

    “That’ll do!” said a masculine voice with a chuckle in it.

    Hildy gasped, and wobbled upright. Marybelle turned puce and gulped.

    “This is Paul,” said Floss, beaming at her benefactor. “Thank you very, very, very much for my parrot, Paul!” she added earnestly.

    “That was entirely my pleasure, querida,” he said, smiling at her. “In our family we believe in presents, especially for the youngest one.”

    “Yes. ’Cos usually you have to wear your sister’s old dresses and things,” revealed Bunch.

    “Sí, sí. These breeches used to be Luís’s. He tore the knee and Berthe cut them down. Madre said the stuff was still good,” revealed Bungo with a mixture of pride and gloom.

    “This dress used to be Christa’s!” gasped Marybelle, astounded that this dreadful fate befell persons besides herself and Floss.

    “Yes. Christa looks good in blue,” Floss excused the dress’s appearance on Marybelle. “She’s got grey eyes. And her hair’s much darker than ours. Not as dark as yours, though,” she said, looking avidly at Paul’s curly black locks.

    “That’ll do,” said Hildy faintly, swallowing.

     Paul immediately smiled at her and said: “How do you do, Cousin?”

    “Um—how do you do? Oh—I’m sorry; I’m Hildy!” she gasped, overcome by confusion.

    “She does look like Gaetana,” noted Bunch. “Floss said you did,” she explained.

    “Did she?” said Hildy faintly.

    “Yes,” smiled Paul. “This is Gaetana,” he added with a twinkle, drawing her forward. “And this is Maria.”

    Hildy managed to welcome them politely but before anyone else could say a thing—though Gaetana, who was looking at her with great interest, certainly looked as if she was about to—Floss explained: “Maria’s shy of talking English. Isn’t that peculiar?”

    “Don’t be an idiot, how would you like to be set down in a foreign country where you had to speak nothing but Spanish?” retorted Hildy vigorously. “I think you’re all very brave to come to England,” she said to Maria.

    “Thank you, Cousin Hildy,” said Maria in a tiny voice.

    “Your English is very good,” approved Hildy.

    “Thank you,” she said again, pinkening and smiling.

    “They can speak—um—other languages, too,” revealed Floss.

    “Spanish and French,” agreed Hildy.

    “No—another one as well. –What was that other one?” she asked Bungo.

    “Flamand. And Paul and Gaetana speak German and Italian, only we were too little when we were in Italy, me and Bunch can’t remember much, can we?”

    “No-o... I can remember ‘Buon giorno’ and ‘Ho molto fame’.”

    “Yes, me, too. –I am awfully hungry, actually,” he said, looking wistfully at Hildy.

    “Bungo! Remember your manners!” Paul reproved him. “We haven’t even been introduced to this little cousin yet!” He smiled at Marybelle. She predictably turned puce.

    “She’s Marybelle, she’s older than me,” explained Floss.

    Paul greeted the puce Marybelle politely.

    “She can’t have a parrot, can she?” added Floss on an anxious note.

    Paul smiled. “We thought that a parrot would be nice for your little sister, Marybelle, you see. But Gaetana has chosen something much more grown-up for you.” —A panther? wondered Hildy wildly.

    “Really?” gasped Marybelle.

    “Yes. Also presents for your sisters,” said Maria shyly. “How do you do, Cousin Marybelle?”

    “How do you do, Maria? You’re fifteen, aren’t you?” returned Marybelle.

    “Yes.”

    “So am I. You can share our room, if you like,” she offered generously.

    “Thank you, Cousin Marybelle.”

    Hildy said weakly: “Yes, um—oh, dear. Would you all like to go upstairs, or something?” she said to Gaetana.

    “Yes, but shouldn’t we meet your mamma, first?” she replied doubtfully.

    “She’s out,” gulped Hildy. “We weren’t expecting you.”

    “No, we thought it was just another of Uncle Harry’s hairbrained schemes!” said Floss eagerly.

    “Be quiet, Floss,” said Hildy, turning scarlet.

    “But surely Harry wrote to Tia Patty?” gasped Paul in horror.

    “Um—oh, is that what you call Mamma?” said Hildy weakly. “Yes, he did, only that was some time back.”

    “Yes. Before Miss Morton’s sister had the new baby,” explained Marybelle.

    “Um—yes. Um—the children’s governess,” said Hildy feebly.

    “I see,” said Paul kindly. “But that would have been Harry’s first letter on the subject. Did you not get a letter explaining that it was all definite and telling you when we were to arrive?”

    “No! Because he didn’t write one!” said Gaetana loudly. “That’s Harry all over, Paul, you know what he is! I told you it would all be a disaster.”

    “No! We’re very pleased to have you!” gasped poor Hildy, scarlet all over again.

    Paul said to his sister in Spanish: “Perhaps we’d better rack up at the nearest inn, then?” and Gaetana replied in that language: “I don’t think there is one for miles. And we can’t make poor Francisco go another league, he’s a cot-case, Paul!”

    “Sí, sí,” he agreed glumly. “I’m very sorry, Cousin Hildy: my father did say he would write again, but it appears he didn’t,” he said weakly.

    “No. Um—Mamma and Christa and Amabel have gone to pay a call on Mrs Shallcrass. They—they won’t be very long, I expect.”

    “Pooh, they’ll be ages and ages! Mrs Shallcrass will gossip on all afternoon!” objected Marybelle.

    “Yes, she always does. Mamma said she would not subject us to the trial this time and Hildy need not come either, as she’s not properly out,” reported Floss. “Besides, she’s supposed to be in charge of us.”

    Suddenly Bungo re-entered the conversation, giving Hildy a melting smile.—She blinked: in spite of the red curls, his eyes were as dark as his brother’s.—“You could order us up a nuncheon, couldn’t you?”

    “Ramón Ainsley!” gasped Maria in horror.

    “Um—yes—only I’m afraid Cook’s left us: her mother died and she had to go home to look after her old father!” gulped Hildy desperately. “I’m sorry: we’re all at sixes and sevens!” she explained to Paul and Gaetana.

    “‘At sixes and sevens,’” echoed Gaetana pleasedly. “That’s a splendid expression!”

    “Don’t worry, dear Cousin Hildy, our family is always at sixes and sevens!” said Paul with his cheery smile.

    “Yes: sixes and sevens is an entire way of life to us!” agreed Gaetana.

    “Berthe could cook!” offered Bungo eagerly.

    “Yes: she is an excellent cook,” agreed Maria. “Madre did not take her to Spain, for she thought we would need her to look after us.”

    “Yes: she was Maria’s nurse, and the twins’, of course,” said Gaetana.

    Hildy looked helplessly from her to Paul.

    “Well, I think that would be the best plan!” he agreed. ‘‘It will only be necessary to show Berthe the kitchen: she’ll do the rest,” he said to Hildy, twinkling. “And Jake will get the baggage upstairs, there is no need for your menservants to trouble themselves.”

    “Um—there’s only Merryweather. He’s driving Mamma.”

    “There’s Billy!” objected Floss.

    “He’s only the garden-boy, you know what Mamma said that time he came inside to help Merryweather mend the hole in the roof,” Marybelle reminded her.

    “He could wipe his boots,” she objected.

    “No, no, there is no need for us to trouble Billy!” said Paul gaily. “Jake will see to everything. Our other man is very travel-sick, I’m afraid, but he’ll be better once he has slept it off,” he assured Hildy.

    “Other man?” she said weakly.

    “Sí. My valet: he was my father’s valet.”

    “Yes: before, he was Madre’s footman, he comes from her papa’s estates,” explained Bungo.

    “But if he went back to Spain they’d hang him!” put in Bunch eagerly.

    “Or shoot him,” allowed Bungo.

    “¡Sí, sí!” she agreed.

    “What did he do?” croaked Hildy.

    “Yes: what?” cried Floss, momentarily diverted from Pierrot.

    “Oh, uh—he took part in an insurrection—a political thing. He is not a bad man, little Floss!” said Paul, smiling at her.

    “Is he a republican?’ asked Hildy abruptly in her odd, deep voice.

    “Yes,” said Paul, staring, rather.

    “Good. So am I,” she stated grimly.

    “Oh, good! We are, too!” cried Gaetana.

    “Sí. But don’t talk about it in England: most English people will not understand. But I’m glad you do, Cousin,” he said to Hildy.

    “Yes: thank goodness: I’ll be able to talk to you!” cried Gaetana.

    “Yes,” she agreed.

    They smiled shyly at each other.

    Paul was very glad to see this—though he did not, to say the truth, care a fig whether Hildy was a republican or not, except insofar as it predisposed Gaetana in her favour. And he was just as hungry as Bungo. So he said: “Well, a little freshening up and unpacking, and then food, I think?”

    “Oh—yes!” gasped Hildy. “I’m sorry, I’ll ring for Bateson. She’ll be awfully glad not to have to do the cooking, she’s no good at it. And Mamma only knows about preserves—she has an excellent stillroom, Mrs Shallcrass says no-one can better Mamma’s damson jelly.”

    “Berthe can cook everything!” said Bungo eagerly.

    “Well, everything that’s edible. –What are damsons?” demanded Bunch.

    “A kind of plum,” explained Hildy. “Not nice to eat but they make delicious jelly.”

    “Ah.” She thought it over. “I like les reine-claude best: do you have them in England?”

    “I don’t know, I don’t know that word.”

    “Sort of like... J’sais pas,” admitted Bunch.

    “Green plums?” said Gaetana dubiously.

    “Mais non!” objected Paul.

    “Gr— Oh! Greengages?” said Hildy.

    “UGH!” cried Marybelle.

    “I love greengages!” objected Floss.

    “Yes, I like them, too,” agreed Hildy. “Oh, there you are, Bateson,” she said. “Um—our Spanish cousins have come. The Ainsleys.”

    “Yes, Miss. There’s a Frenchwoman in the kitchen, Miss Hildy,” she said on a grim note.

    “No, I believe she’s a Belgian, but you’re quite right in that she speaks French. Um—if you should not mind, Bateson, I thought she could cook for us.”

    “Yes,” said Paul with his kind smile. “Would you mind if Berthe cooked in your kitchen, Bateson?”

    The elderly maid bobbed respectfully. “No, indeed, Mr Ainsley. –If she can cook, Miss?” she added dubiously to Hildy.

    “Yes, she’s a great cook!” beamed Bungo. “Hullo, I’m Bungo!” he added eagerly.

    “Good-day, Master Bungo,” replied Bateson primly.

    “Could we come in the kitchen with you?” he asked with a melting look.

    “He only wants to eat the sugar,” warned Bunch.

    “Mrs Maddern doesn’t allow that, Miss,” returned Bateson firmly.

    “No, I should think not, and nor does our mamma!” agreed Gaetana, glaring at him. “I’m afraid the twins are a handful, Bateson. But Berthe will keep them in order.”

    “Yes, Miss. Um—Miss Hildy, Mr Ainsley’s man is sick,” she said on a desperate note.

    “Yes: Francisco. It’s only travel-sickness, Bateson, he will be better directly. If he could perhaps go to bed?” suggested Paul.

    “Yes, sir. That would be best.” She looked helplessly at Hildy.

    “There’s the attic,” said Hildy weakly. “At least the roof’s fixed.”

    “Ooh: an attic!” gasped Bungo.

    Bateson began uncertainly: “Yes, Miss Hildy, I suppose...”

    “Wherever you think, Bateson,” agreed Paul. “Just tell our man Jake, and he will do the rest.”

    “I wouldn’t call him ‘our man’,” said Bunch dubiously.

    “Is he your groom?” asked Marybelle.

    Bunch began: “No, he’s—”

    “He is a very faithful servant and companion of my father’s and he is going to be my agent!” said Paul very loudly and firmly. “And I think we had better all get used to calling him Mr Pringle.”

    “You just called him Jake,” objected Bunch.

    Paul perceived that Bateson and Hildy were both looking bewildered and helpless. “Hush, mi querida. –Jake will manage everything, Bateson, he is most capable. Just tell him what rooms are available. And I’ll come and see Berthe myself. –Yes, you can come, but don’t expect Berthe to let you eat Mrs Maddern’s sugar!” he added loudly to Bungo.

    “To the kitchen, sir?” gasped Bateson.

    “Of course. After you, Bateson.”

    Bateson cast a helpless look at Hildy and led Mr Ainsley out to the kitchen. His brother and sisters followed as a matter of course. So did Floss, complete with Pierrot.

    “Help,” said Hildy, sitting down suddenly.

    “I never heard of a gentleman going to see a kitchen before!” hissed Marybelle, eyes as big as saucers.

    “Nor I. Though I must admit it seemed the sensible move.”

    “Do you think Berthe can really cook?”

    “Yes. I don’t think they would have said she could if she couldn’t.”

    “She won’t make us eat frogs’ legs, will she?”

    “No; where would she get them from?”

    “Um—well, there are plenty down at the pond. –Hildy, where are they all going to sleep?”

    “Don’t ask me,” she said, making an awful face.

    “I wish Mamma or Christa were here!” said Marybelle fervently.

    “So do I.”

    Marybelle swallowed. “Aren’t they foreign?” she said glumly.

    “Um—well, yes,” admitted Hildy lamely.

    “What on earth is Mamma going to say when she gets home to find the house full of foreigners, and a fat old Frenchwoman in the kitchen?”

    “Belgian. Well, I don’t suppose she’ll object to that: especially if Berthe can cook better than Mrs Shallcrass’s cook!” she said with a smile.

    “No. But I have a feeling,” said Marybelle glumly, “that Mamma and Christa will say we shouldn’t have let Paul take over!”

    Hildy swallowed. “Yes. –‘Cousin Paul’: he’s grown up, you mustn’t just say Paul,” she corrected her weakly.

    “No, all right.”

    There was a short silence.

    Not surprisingly, Marybelle broke it. “I wonder what presents they’ve brought for us?” she hissed, eyes shining.

    “Ssh!” hissed Hildy.

    “It couldn’t be as good as a parrot, whatever it is,” she decided.

    “No,” agreed Hildy a trifle wistfully.

    “What’s Mamma going to say about the parrot?” gasped Marybelle.

    It had already occurred to Hildy to wonder that. Immediately on learning the bird was Florabelle’s, actually. She winced.

    “Ooh, help,” said Marybelle.

    “After that,” said Mrs Maddern with a weak laugh, “dear Paul just sort of—took over!”

    Mrs Parkinson had been fingering the black lace mantilla that Marinela had sent for her husband’s cousin. “My dear Patty, this is exquisite!”

    “Yes, is it not?” Mrs Maddern agreed, trying not to positively preen herself. “Dear Gaetana explained that they wear them on the head, with a big comb—my dear, though she does resemble our dear Hildy so much with that hair, when she showed me how the Spanish ladies wear them, she just looked so—so exotic, with those big dark eyes!” She laughed a little. “Christa and Amabel and I are agreed she must wear her hair very much swept back, side curls would not do for her at all!”

    Mrs Parkinson screwed up her eyes a little. “Mm—I think you are perfectly right!”

    Mrs Maddern nodded, but added with a little sigh: “Well, I would not make a guy of myself by wearing it Spanish-style, so l shall wear it as a shawl.”

    “Yes: delightful,” approved Mrs Parkinson.

    “I think I shall give a dinner party before we leave,” she decided.

    Mrs Parkinson approved this plan, reflecting that the lace shawl would certainly achieve its unstated but nonetheless clear object of making Mrs Shallcrass’s much-vaunted ostrich feather head-piece look sick.

    Mrs Maddern opened a box. “And see: this is what dear Gaetana chose for Hildy: is it not exquisite?”

    It was a delicate necklace of seed pearls, the tiny pearls having been worked into the shape of little flowers.

    “Lovely! Quite unusual!” approved Mrs Parkinson. “Just right for a young girl.”

    “Yes. And this,”—Mrs Maddern opened another box—“is what dearest Marinela sent for Amabel.”

    “Oh, how very unusual!” cried Mrs Parkinson. She lifted the carved white jade brooch carefully.

    “Yes. I believe it is Oriental in origin,” said Mrs Maddern carelessly, “but the setting is European, of course.”

    “Exquisite,” pronounced Mrs Parkinson. “And most suitable for a fair girl.”

    Mrs Maddern nodded. “And Harry himself chose this set for Christabel,” she said on a guilty note, opening the last case: much larger.

    Mrs Parkinson blinked, and gasped.

    “Fortunately she can wear blue,” murmured Mrs Maddern complacently.

    “My dear! Sapphires?”

    “Yes: are they not pretty?” said Mrs Maddern, holding her head on one side and looking at the full set of necklace, earrings, brooch and bracelets.

    “Wonderful,” Mrs Parkinson agreed in a shaken voice, lifting the necklace to admire it. After some moments she ventured: “But my dear, the complete set is surely not entirely suitable for an unmarried girl?”

    “No, indeed, one would not wish to appear overdressed. Well,” said Mrs Maddern, brushing carelessly at an invisible piece of fluff on her knee, “dear Christa, of course, has been so sensible about it, and we have agreed she may wear either the brooch or a bracelet, on appropriate occasions. Just for the moment.”

    “Very suitable,” agreed Mrs Parkinson. She set the necklace back carefully, repressing a sigh—her Dorothea, who had blue eyes and fair curls, looked even better in blue than did the handsome Miss Maddern—and said: “Well, my dear, what changes are in store for you!”

    “Yes,” agreed Mrs Maddern on a complacent note. “Of course, it will all be rather strange, at first—I have not so much as set foot in town for an age!—but dear Paul is determined to drag us all off almost immediately!” She gave a little laugh.

    “I see. And what about Ainsley Manor?”

    “Well, Mr Pringle will go down there directly he has seen us settled in the town house—my dear, such a capable man, I can’t tell you what a blessing it is to have such a man to rely on!” she said with feeling.—Mrs Parkinson nodded understandingly: Mrs Maddern had been left a widow when Florabelle was less than a year old.—“And dear Paul will join him as soon as possible, to see what needs to be done, and then we shall all go down there for the summer!”

    “Delightful,” sighed Mrs Parkinson. “But there is no denying you and the girls will be sadly missed in the neighbourhood, my dear.”

    “But that is what I wished to speak to you about! Dearest Paul is most generous, he says we must consider the Manor as our second home! My love, will not you and dear Dorothea join us there for the summer months?”

    Mrs Parkinson was rather taken aback.

    “It will not be a fashionable life: just us and the children—and it may help to get the roses back in Dorothea’s cheeks!” she urged.

    Mrs Parkinson, having met Paul Ainsley, would scarcely have been human if she had not given a fleeting, hopeful glance in the direction of its possibly doing much more than that for her only daughter. However, it was not merely for this reason that she accepted instantly: Dorothea was as listless and mopey as ever. “My dearest Patty, it would be the very thing! I—I shall not attempt to persuade Dorothea, I shall tell her that her mamma has decided it is the best for her!” she said on a militant note.

    Mrs Maddern gave a little excited laugh and clapped her hands. “Oh, splendid! What fun it will be, to be back in the old place again! Do you recall that summer we all spent there when you and I were just seventeen? You had that rose silk gown, and I a green one, and even though we were none of us out, Aunt Lucy agreed that you and I and Sophia should put our hair up and come down to dinner!”

    “Yes, indeed. –My goodness, was it not that summer that Sophia met Mr Goodbody for the very first time?”

    “I believe you are right. Why, yes, she and you and I were out walking with my governess and we encountered him in his tilbury!” she cried.

    “Yes; it was a very warm day. Sophia had on her new straw hat and the dress with the stripes: white and.... what was that subtle shade?”

    “Something sigh?” suggested Mrs Maddern dubiously.

    “I have forgot,” confessed Mrs Parkinson. “I remember how well it became her, with those black curls of hers.”

    “Yes,” agreed Mrs Maddern on a glum note. “How I do wish that my youngest girls had not inherited the family hair!” she added crossly. “Mr Maddern was a dark-haired man; it is really most unfair!”

    “You must try the cucumber and lemon receet for Marybelle’s complexion,” said Mrs Parkinson firmly.

    “Yes, indeed.” Mrs Maddern began closing up the jewel cases. “And if only she will allow me to apply it, I think the younger girls will follow suit!”

    “Yes,” conceded Mrs Parkinson with a twinkle, “I dare say they will. But you have not said what her cousins gave little Florabelle, my dear!”

    Mrs Maddern swallowed. “No. Well, to say truth, although it was a very kind notion of Paul’s and Floss is delighted with it, it was not a—a wise choice.”

    Mrs Parkinson looked puzzled. “No?”

    “No,” she said glumly. “It is just as well Miss Morton is away, for quite apart from the fact that the house is bulging at the seams and I have been obliged to give Gaetana her room, I really do not think she could cope with the way the creature swears!”

    “What?” said Mrs Parkinson faintly.

    “It’s a parrot,” she said glumly.

    Mrs Parkinson gave a little startled laugh.

    “You may laugh, Wilhelmina,” she said gloomily, “but the children had it downstairs when Mrs Shallcrass came to pay us a courtesy call, and first the creature said ‘Vive l’empereur,’”—Mrs Parkinson gasped—“and then it— Well, never mind. Most fortunately Mrs Shallcrass never had the advantage of a governess experienced in foreign languages, so she did not understand any of the rest of it. And frankly, my dear, it uses words that I have never heard, even though my dear Mademoiselle Guyard was a Frenchwoman. And the worst thing is, Bungo has taken to copying it and Paul merely laughs!”

    “I see,” said Mrs Parkinson valiantly. “—Goodness, Mademoiselle Guyard: how long ago that all seems, Patty!”

    “Indeed. Though the thought of my dear Ainsley Manor has brought it all back to me. Do you remember the time we—”

    The two ladies plunged into reminiscence.

    ... “Here they are!” cried Mrs Maddern some little time later as the girls all returned from their walk. “Now, you will see!” She nodded significantly.

    Mrs Parkinson had to swallow. Sure enough, Marybelle had her hands in the ermine muff that had been her cousins’ “grown-up” present to her. She duly admired the muff, refused Florabelle’s pressing invitation to see the parrot on the ostensible grounds that her daughter would be wondering what had kept her, but really because she felt she should spare poor Patty that, in spite of the Spanish lace shawl and Christabel’s sapphires, renewed her assurance that she would send her carriage to fetch them to visit two days hence, and took her departure.

    “Never mind,” said Floss, “we’ll take the parrot when we go!”

    “You will do no such thing,” replied her mother grimly, “and indeed, you are not invited, Miss!”

    “But Mamma, who will look after them?” said Christabel.

    “Help, that’s a thought,” agreed Hildy. “Gaetana and I had better stay behind!” she said hopefully.

    “I could stay, I suppose,” said Christabel with a smothered sigh. “Dorothea is really Amabel’s friend, not mine.”

    “Nonsense! Our good Berthe is more than capable of keeping an eye on the children! We are all going, and indeed Wilhelmina has urged me to use the carriage to take you girls on a little shopping expedition,” said Mrs Maddern firmly. “I know the London dressmakers are much smarter, of course, but you cannot go to London with nothing on your backs!”

    Christabel and Amabel nodded but Hildy and Gaetana looked down in bewilderment at their serviceable pelisses.

    “Frowst,” said Mrs Maddern firmly. “And that Thing of Amabel’s is nigh on four seasons old!”

    “It’s a pretty colour; that delicate green suits her, Mamma,” murmured Christabel.

    “Can I have it?” said Marybelle eagerly.

    “No, it is going straight in the ragbag,” replied Mrs Maddern grimly.

    “Mamma, I could cut it down for Bunch,” Amabel murmured.

    “Certainly not. Well, anything would be better than That,” said Mrs Maddern with a shudder, averting her eyes from the dark brown garment her youngest niece was hidden in—once Maria’s, and Berthe had merely put two large tucks in the skirt. “But I intend to order a pretty new pelisse for dearest Bunch!” She beamed at her.

    Bunch turned puce. “Have you the money, though, Tia Patty?” she asked hoarsely. “Because I can do without: you mustn’t get dunned because of me!”

    Mrs Maddern’s face did not flicker, though both Christabel and Amabel gasped and in fact Amabel’s hand flew to her mouth. Hildy, by contrast, looked interested: such revelations of her cousins’ way of life were a continual fascination to her.

    “You can rest assured, my dear little girl, that you will not have to worry about money ever again,” stated Mrs Maddern.

    Bunch looked puzzled.

    “Paul writes me from town that—er—that his man of business has explained that the Ainsley estates bring in a considerable annual sum. Well, I knew that, of course,” said Patty Ainsley Maddern. “And your papa has written a piece of paper to say that it is all for Paul, to spend on the house and on you younger children!” she added in a somewhat desperate effort to explain it in terms the little girl would understand.

    Bunch’s eyes narrowed. “He has not broke the entail, has he?”

    Mrs Maddern gasped. “I do not think so, my dear,” she said faintly.

    “Good; Harry would be silly enough, but I didn’t think Paul would let him. And Madre is very strong on keeping property in the family: Pa tried to make her sell her Spanish estates once when he had got very badly in debt, but she refused. She was quite right, of course, that land is Luís’s inheritance. –They had a tremendous fight about it,” she informed her mesmerized hostess.

    “Indeed, my dear?” she said faintly.

    “Si. Marinela won, of course: she only gives in over things that aren’t serious.”

    “I see,” she murmured.

    “What amazes me,” stated Hildy—Mrs Maddern braced herself—“is that Uncle Harry and Aunt Marinela should have spent their money on unnecessary presents for us, rather than outfitting their own children!”

    “Hildegarde—” warned Mrs Maddern.

    “Especially that huge set of sapphires for Christa!” added Hildy strongly.

    “Oh, Harry won that,” said Bunch calmly.

    “Won it?” gasped Harry Ainsley’s cousin.

    “Sí, Tia Patty. And none of us can wear blue. Well, Pa said I might, but Madre put the necklace on me and it looked awful. So then Madre decided it should go to Christa as Pa’s cousin’s eldest daughter, and he said ‘Bay Jove, damn’ good idea!’” she reported, beaming. “Harry said it sounded as if your skin was like milk and wild roses, and it is!” she added enthusiastically to Christabel.

    Christabel’s milk and wild roses turned a mottled scarlet. “Good Heavens,” she said faintly.

    Mrs Maddern had been standing. At this she sat down suddenly.

    “Mamma, shall I ring for your smelling salts?” asked Amabel.

    “No, I’m all right, dearest. –Milk and wild roses?” she echoed weakly.

    “If I were you I should either institute a vinaigrette or develop a complete immunity to every word our cousins say,” advised Hildy.

    At this the milk and wild roses one came to herself and said sharply: ‘‘Well, after nigh on twenty years’ exposure to you, Hildegarde Maddern, I should think poor Mamma would already have developed an immunity to unguarded speech!”

    “Christa, little Bunch is but a child,” murmured Mrs Maddern weakly.

    “A child that knows about entails,” agreed Hildy. “And gambling: how did Uncle Harry win those sapphires?” she asked eagerly.

    “That will DO!” cried Christabel.

    “Yes,” agreed Mrs Maddern. “Be silent, Hildegarde.”

    “Oh, yes: Bunch, a lady does not speak of a gentleman’s gambling!” recalled Gaetana pleasedly.

    “Especially in England,” added Maria anxiously.

    “Piquet,” said Bunch briefly to Hildegarde. “A good game. I’ll teach you. But don’t play with Bungo, he cheats.”

    Christabel took a deep breath.

    “Don’t, Christa dear,” murmured Mrs Maddern. “Milk and wild roses! Yes, the more one thinks of it, your complexion is exactly that, my dearest one!”

    “Yes,” agreed Gaetana. “Very lovely. Harry once said mine was like muguet des bois, but that always looks greenish to me.”

    “Lily of the valley!” cried Mrs Maddern. “Oh, yes, my dear child, it is exactly that! So delicate! And so, of course, is our dear Hildy’s. You both remind me so much of myself as a young girl!”

    “Look out,” warned Hildy, unmoved by this reference. –Mrs Maddern in middle age was a plump, pink-faced woman, and her dark auburn had turned almost completely to silver, so possibly it was not surprizing that she did not recognize herself or her cousin in her.

    Mrs Maddern burst abruptly into tears. Her cousin’s daughters looked horrified, but as Amabel and Christabel scurried to succour her Hildy explained drily: “She does that every so often, when she thinks of her girlhood. I can’t think why: she married the man she wanted to marry, and she had several successful Seasons in London—that was before word of your father being mixed up with the French got back to England, of course,” she added by the by—Mrs Maddern in the midst of her tears gave a moan—“and really, apart from Papa not having much money and dying relatively young—though he was much older than Mamma—she has had a very happy life.”

    “So far,” noted Marybelle.

    “Yes: Christa said only the day before our cousins arrived that you were in a fair way to ruining what was left of it, Hildegarde Maddern,” noted Floss.

    “Did she?” gasped Maria.

    “It was only because I fell in the creek. It wasn’t even a particularly cold day. And you can see for yourselves I didn’t come to the least harm because of it.”

    “Why did you fall in?” asked Bunch keenly.

    “I was trying to tickle a trout, and I slipped.”

    Bunch looked puzzled.

    “Du braconnage,” said Gaetana briefly. Maria gave a gasp of horror; simultaneously Bunch gave a gasp of delight.

    Christabel ceased ministering to her mother and came over to them. “Run along upstairs,” she said firmly. “I shall be up directly, and after we have had some bread and butter you younger ones can do your sums.”

    “Oh!” protested Floss.

    “Especially you, Floss; Bunch is so much better at her sums than you it is positively shaming!”

    “Yes, but she can’t spell, even in French or Spanish!”

    Miss Maddern had been horrified to find that Bunch and Bungo could scarcely write nor read English. Maria could read a little, but could hardly write “The cat sat on the mat.” Thanks to the good nuns, however, her written French was excellent. The good nuns had very evidently made no impression on the twins. Either scholastically or religiously, though the latter, Miss Maddern considered, having discovered Maria’s devout Catholicism with unalloyed horror, was something to be thankful for. Amabel in her gentle way had suggested that the local church every Sunday would speedily cure Maria, but Miss Maddern had not realised, as her sister had put it altogether nicely, that what Amabel really meant was that Mr Parkinson’s beauty would drive all thoughts of both the Catholic Church and the veil from Maria’s head, so she had rubbished the suggestion soundly.

    “Never mind that. Run along,” she repeated. “And do not forget to check Pierrot’s seed and water, Floss: remember that his life is in your hands,” she added impressively.

    Floss nodded importantly and bustled out, followed closely by Bunch.

    “Venga,” said Gaetana glumly to Maria.

    “My dear Gaetana, I did not mean to include you with the children!” gasped Christabel in horror.

    “No. You are going to be out and—and have pretty dresses and go to dances,” said Maria wistfully.

    “Yes, it isn’t fair,” agreed Marybelle enviously.

    Mrs Maddern had recovered herself. “Never mind, my dears: very soon you will be old enough to come out, too, and you shall make your come-out together!” she said, sitting up very straight.

    “What about my freckles, though?” said Marybelle glumly,

    “Ah! Mrs Parkinson has given me an excellent receet!”

    Marybelle agreed to try it. Maria took her hand and squeezed it. “Madre says if you wear a hat all the time, Marybelle, and stay out of the sun the freckles will vanish, and I am to remind you!”

    “Dearest Marinela, so thoughtful!” sighed Mrs Maddern. “Yes, and you must carry a parasol!” she declared strongly.

    “I haven’t got a parasol,” said Marybelle glumly.

    “No, but I intend to buy you a very pretty one!” declared her mother.

    Marybelle goggled at her.

    “Good. And also I shall ask Paul, he will buy one for me, so we shall match!” decided Maria. “Pink,” she said thoughtfully to herself.—Mrs Maddern winced.—“But you could not possibly wear pink, dear Cousin,” added Maria firmly, not realizing that Marybelle’s fondest dream was being shattered. Well, almost fondest: marrying Mr Parkinson and living in the paradise that would result from this holy union had very lately taken over from the wearing of pink. “A very pale yellow, perhaps a— Comment dit-on?” she said weakly to Gaetana.

    “Couleur de primevères?” she suggested.

    “Primrose, I think that is,” translated Hildy.

    “Yes, my dear, a primrose or a pale lemon would be the very thing!” agreed Mrs Maddern in considerable relief.

    “¡Sí, sí, how pretty you will be!” said Maria, squeezing her hand.

    “Not as pretty as you,” said Marybelle glumly.

    “Yes; for your hair is very beautiful, and your eyes are lovely, too, but l am very drumhum,” said Maria earnestly.

    “Humdrum, dear,” corrected Mrs Maddern weakly. “And you’re not, at all!”

    “No, you’re pretty. And black hair is the fashion,” said Marybelle. “Oh, well: at least l shall have a bran-new parasol, and that silly Louisa Shallcrass will look pretty sick!” she added pleasedly.

    “Sí, sí.” Maria drew her out of the room, chattering gently about clothes.

    “That little girl is a blessing!” declared Mrs Maddern fervently.

    “No, Marybelle is a blessing: Maria was never interested in dress before meeting her, Tia Patty: she was used to say clothes were worldly and frivolous!” Gaetana assured her with equal fervour.

    “Did she, my dear?” she said a trifle limply. “Well—well, to be sure, that is a most correct attitude. But one must dress, after all!”

    “Sí. Shall we buy the stuffs for the girls’ new pelisses in Tunbridge Wells, Tia Patty? Paul has sent me lots of money in his letter,” she explained.

    He had also sent Mrs Maddern a draft for a considerable sum. Considerable. On the excuse that she was caring for his brother and sisters. Mrs Maddern was just so relieved to have it she hadn’t even thought of writing a polite protest in return. Besides, Paul would be back very soon: he now had only to see about getting Sir George’s furniture out of storage—Mrs Maddern was silently determined she would go over every stick of it and at the very least have new covers made and quite probably replace most of it, because it would all be hopelessly antiquated—and about buying a carriage. A carriage! The Madderns had only a trap and with Merryweather driving it was quite a squeaze for Mrs Maddern and the two older girls.

    “Yes, indeed, my dear. What do you say to a pale leaf-green for little Bunch? Something like Amabel’s old pelisse, indeed, but—” Mrs Maddern rose and, talking eagerly about pelisses, absentmindedly accompanied Gaetana up to her room.

    “Leaf-green pelisses? I’d put a bag over the brat’s head!” declared Hildy.

    “Hildy!” protested Amabel.

    “You didn’t have to cope with poor Bateson’s hysterics when she found that huge spider in the sugar bowl,” she said grimly.

    “No, indeed!” agreed Christabel with feeling.

    “And to think she let us blame poor Bungo, until Floss inadvertently let it out who was the true culprit!” added Hildy indignantly.

    “Yes: that girl is a—a ringleader!” pronounced Miss Maddern awfully.

    “Oh, dear,” murmured Amabel.

    “You had best speak to Paul about her, when he gets back, Christa, because I am very sure Mamma never will,” recommended Hildy grimly.

    “Er—well, I am not her sister, dearest,” objected Miss Maddern. “Mr Ainsley may not care for me to—to speak ill of little Bunch.”

    “Speak ill! That would be impossible!” cried Hildy. “She made a sling-shot and shot one of Amabel’s poor doves this morning! Well, I did not mean to mention it, Christa, but— And Amabel was quite prepared to blame Bungo—don’t deny it, you know you were—until I said that I had seen Bunch do it with my very own eyes!”

    “You were just as bad, at her age—worse,” said Christabel on a bitter note. “Remember the episode of the ipecacuanha in the milk?” she said to Amabel. “It was a wonder we were not all poisoned! Not to mention the time she painted poor little Floss blue all over with the blue-bag because she wanted to see what an Ancient Briton looked like! And the time she upset a whole bowl of flour that Cook had set out for a batch of bread all over poor Mrs Spofford’s mother!”

    “Greybeard! Wasn’t she lovely!” cried Amabel, immediately diverted from the topic at hand. “What a pity none of her kittens inherited that funny little whiskery chin!”

    “Yes, and that is another thing,” said Christabel darkly, also wandering from the subject: “I should not be at all surprized if that evil bird were to attack Mrs Spofford: the twins and Floss had him out of his cage the other day whilst Mrs Spofford was walking by and he pecked at her tail!”

    “Well, he missed it, she’s too fly for a mere parrot,” said Hildy.

    “Evil bird?” gasped Amabel. “Christa, what hypocrisy! I caught you myself yestere’en giving him a piece of macaroon and begging him to say ‘God save the King!’”

    “What a waste of a macaroon!” choked Hildy.

    Miss Maddern replied with great dignity: “I thought it might help to counteract his continual ‘Vive l’empereur’.”

    “We realise that!” gasped Hildy, collapsing in laughter. Amabel immediately followed suit.

    Miss Maddern waited, a little frown on her lovely wide forehead. “What did you mean, that you did not mean to mention to me that Bunch had murdered one of Amabel’s doves, Hildy?” she said when they’d recovered.

    Hildy looked at Amabel, who said quickly: “Dearest, we did not wish to worry you, that is all. It has seemed to us that—well, that Mamma is putting rather too much on your shoulders with Miss Morton having been away so much this past year and—and that what with the worry over dear Dorothea— Well, in short, we did not wish to burden you further, dearest!”

    “No. You’re looking a bit hagged,” said Hildy gruffly.

    “Am I?” she said with a sigh. “Yes, I suppose it has been a—a trying few months.” She wandered over to the window and stared out absently.

    “Well,” said Amabel bravely: “if Miss Morton has not returned to us by the time Cousin Paul gets back, I am determined to speak to him about getting another governess directly for the twins. Bunch is just too much!”

    “Yes. She does mind Berthe, only she’s so busy, and besides, she is really too old and fat to be after Bunch all the time,” agreed Hildy. “—If Hal was half a man he’d be here helping you, instead of racing about the country visiting his old Oxford friends ten months out of the year!” she added angrily.

    “Dearest, that is a wild exaggeration,” said Christabel with a little sigh. “He has only been gone—well, three months.”

    “Nigh on four,” said Hildegarde, scowling.

    “Yes. Tom wrote me he would come home from the University if we needed him, only of course I said he must not. Though it is true Floss has always minded him,” said Amabel.

    “Give up his studies for the sake of those harum-scarum children? I should think not!” cried Miss Maddern strongly.

    “I don’t see the point in his sacrificing you in order to become a man of the cloth and do others some putative good in an unforeseeable future!” said Hildy on an angry note.

    “I am not being sacrificed: that is ridiculous, Hildegarde,” returned Miss Maddern coldly.

    “I think there is a little truth in it, dearest Christa,” said Amabel hesitantly, hoping that Christa had not read what she herself had into the scornful reference to men of the cloth.

    “Well, there is nothing to discuss. We shall all be in London in a few weeks’ time and our situation will have changed utterly,” said Miss Maddern, though rather wearily.

    “Not unless someone is hired to keep those children in check! Floss is getting wilder under Bunch’s influence!” said Hildy crossly.

    “Yes. Well, I’m glad to see you’ve grown up enough to notice such things, Hildy,” said Miss Maddern drily.

    Hildy flushed.

    “I shall speak to Mamma this minute!” decided Amabel, going over to the door.

    “Amabel—!” cried Christabel.

    But Amabel had hurried out.

    “Help. She’s got the bit between her teeth,” said Hildy in some awe.

    “I dare say it will do no good, because ten to one Mamma will weep.”

    “Yes,” Hildy agreed uncomfortably.

    “You are not the only one in this family who is capable of seeing others as they are, you know,” said Miss Maddern wearily.

    “No. –You do look tired,” she said anxiously.

    “No doubt. Well, Mamma kept me up late talking last night, and this morning,” she said on a dry note, “I was woken very early by the sounds of something which I have only just realized must have been the death-throes of Amabel’s dove!”

    “Mm. Well, Merryweather put Bunch over his knee,” admitted Hildy. “You might have been awakened by her yelling.”

    Miss Maddern smiled. “Did he? The splendid old man!”

    Hildy swallowed. “Ye-es... To say truth, Christa, he would not have, though of course he was very angry: he has always been as proud of that dovecot as Amabel has; only I asked him to!”

    Suddenly Miss Maddern laughed. “Come and give me a hug!”

    Very surprized, Hildy did so.

    “What’s the matter?” she said in horror as Christabel gave a sudden sob into her neck.

    “Nothing,” said Miss Maddern, sniffing desperately. “Just tired, I suppose.”

    “You could lie down. I’ll take the children for their sums,” decided Hildy.

    Christabel kissed her cheek. “Thank you, my dearest, that would be wonderful!” she admitted.

    “These Spanish cousins are a trial!” declared Hildy, scowling, as she went over to the door.

    Christabel was blowing her nose. “Mm? Oh—yes! A sad trial!” she said with a little forced laugh. “Run along, then, my dear, I am very sure that whatever the girls are doing it is not sums!”

    “No,” conceded Hildy with a grin, going out.

    On the stairs, however, the grin faded, to be replaced by a worried frown. Surely Christabel did like the Spanish cousins? Yes, she was positive. Well, Bunch was a little pest, of course, but... And Christabel in the past had spoken eagerly of London and how wonderful a Season there would be, so... It was very odd.

    In the parlour Miss Maddern removed her bonnet, straightened her chestnut locks, and blew her nose again. She put the handkerchief away, looking determined. It was clear that Mr Ainsley admired dearest Amabel greatly. Well, what gentleman would not? She was so gentle and kind, and so very, very pretty! And of course quite short, whereas she herself was a tall woman and Mr Ainsley was not— Christabel wrenched her mind off this puerile line of thought. Nonsense! Rubbish! She would not even give him a passing thought in that way, because, quite apart from the fact that he and Amabel were so clearly made for each other, she herself was quite three years his senior! She went upstairs to rest, looking very firm and resolute.

    If copious foolish tears watered her pillow that night long after dearest Amabel was asleep, no-one knew it but herself.