Bath Tangle

6

The removal to Bath having been decided upon, nothing remained but to choose between lodgings there, or a furnished house. Fanny, unaccustomed to arranging such matters, would have wasted weeks in indecision, but it was otherwise with Serena. It was she who entered into all the negotiations, she who knew what would best suit them. Fanny had nothing to do but to agree; and if asked what were her own inclinations she could only say that she would like to do whatever Serena thought most proper. So Serena, remarking that to keep five indoor servants in idleness for several months would be a false economy, discarded all ideas of renting lodgings, and dispatched Lybster to Bath to inspect the various houses recommended by the agent. This resulted in Fanny’s signing a contract to hire, for six months, a house in Laura Place, which Lybster pronounced to be the most eligible of all he had seen. By the middle of March all the furniture at the Dower House was shrouded in holland covers, and Spenborough, who had spared no pains to assist the ladies in all the troublesome details of removal (even lending the late Earl’s enormous and antiquated travelling coach for the transport of servants and baggage), was able to heave a sigh of rather guilty relief.

Since Milverley lay only some twenty-five miles from Bath, the ladies accomplished the journey in the barouche. Fanny, fortified on the road by smelling-salts, declared that she had never made a journey more comfortably, and, instead of retiring instantly to bed to nurse a sick headache, was able, on their arrival in Laura Place, not only to inspect the house, but to change her dress for dinner, and to discuss with Serena the exciting news contained in a letter from Lady Theresa, which was found awaiting her. The Princess Charlotte was engaged to Leopold of Saxe-Coburg!

This was just the kind of news which Fanny enjoyed. Nothing could be more interesting than the approaching nuptials of the heiress presumptive to the throne; and when the heiress had already made a considerable stir by breaking her engagement to the Prince of Orange the new contract could not but provide food for a good deal of speculation. Fanny was not acquainted with the Princess, who had been kept very close; but she had met Prince Leopold during the rather premature Peace Celebrations in 1814: indeed, she was sure he had been present at the great rout-party they had given at Spenborough House for so many of the foreign notables. Did not Serena recall a handsome young man in that alarming Grandduchess’s train? She was persuaded he must be all that was most amiable; it was no wonder that the Princess should have preferred him to the Prince of Orange. Did not Serena agree that it must be a love-match?

“So my aunt informs us,” said Serena. “It seems not to be a match of the Prince Regent’s seeking, at all events. Indeed, it would be wonderful if it were! It may be very romantic—though I thought the young man a trifle dull, myself!—but a Saxe-Coburg can’t be considered any great thing for such an heiress! A younger son, too!”

But Fanny insisted that this was even an advantage, since a Prince without a principality would be content to live in England, instead, like the Prince of Orange, of insisting on taking the Princess Charlotte to live for some part of the year in his own domains. As for his being dull, she thought Serena judged too harshly. For her part, she liked his dignified manners, his air of grave reflection; and had felt, on the only occasion when she had met him, that the young Prince of Orange was nothing more than a rattle. And with such an undistinguished face and figure!

To read all the information about Prince Leopold’s career and his manifold perfections which was printed in the various newspapers and journals became one of each day’s first objects for Fanny. However little she might have to say on the subject of Brougham’s extraordinary attack on the Prince Regent, with its disastrous consequences to his Party, she had plenty to say on the shabby nature of the dukedom conferred on Prince Leopold, and perused with painstaking thoroughness all seven Articles of the proposed Marriage Settlement.

Bath was well provided with libraries, and these were considered to be among its most agreeable lounges. Most of them provided their subscribers with all the new English and French publications, monthly reviews, and other magazines, all the London papers, and some of the French ones. Fanny divided her patronage between Duffield’s, in Milsom Street, and Meyler & Sons, which conveniently adjoined the Great Pump Room. Here, every morning, she dutifully drank the waters, declaring that she derived immense benefit from them. Serena agreed to this, with suitable gravity, but thought privately that the orchestra, which discoursed music there, the shops in the more modish streets, and the constant procession of new faces, were of even greater benefit to her spirits.

Apart from one or two elderly persons, who had been acquainted either with the first Lady Spenborough, or with Lady Claypole, they had no acquaintance in the town. It was no longer a resort of high fashion, though still a very prosperous and genteel watering-place; and the most notable person to be encountered was Madame D’Arblay, who had been residing there all the winter. Fanny once found herself standing beside her at the ribbon counter in a shop on Gay Street, and was very much awed. The celebrated authoress had bought nothing more uncommon than an ell of black sarsenet ribbon; and nobody, Fanny assured Serena, could have supposed from her manners or her appearance that she had ever done anything out of the common way. Fanny had longed for the courage to introduce herself. “For Evelina, you know, was quite my favourite book, and I’m sure I was persuaded I could never love any gentleman one tenth as much as I loved Lord Orville!”

“What a pity you did not tell her so! I daresay she would have been very much pleased,” Serena said.

“Yes, but I thought she might have wished me rather to have spoken about her last book,” said Fanny naively. “Do you recall that author who dined with us once, and was affronted because your dear papa praised his first book, and never said a word about his others? And I couldn’t have talked to Miss Burney about The Wanderer, because it was so tedious I gave it up after the first volume!”

Upon their first coming to Bath, Serena had written both their names in the subscription books at the Lower and the New Assembly Rooms. Fanny was doubtful of the propriety of this, but the worldly-wise Serena said: “Depend upon it, my dear, it would be foolish to do otherwise! In such a place as this it never does to offend the susceptibilities of the Masters of Ceremonies. We shan’t, of course, go to the balls, or even to the Card Assemblies, but after we have been in mourning for six months we might, I think, go to the concerts, if we wished.”

Fanny submitted, and soon found that her comfort was increased by the goodwill of Mr Guynette of the Lower Rooms, and Mr King of the Upper. Neither of these gentlemen delayed to pay a call of ceremony upon the distinguished ladies in Laura Place, and each rivalled the other in civility. Had the Dowager Countess been as old as Mrs Piozzi, Bath’s latest resident, the visits would have been made; but the zealous gentlemen might not have felt it to be so incumbent upon them to render her so many little attentions, or to keep her so meticulously informed of any item of Bath news. Any Dowager Countess must command respect: one so touchingly youthful, so angelically fair, and with such gentle, unassuming manners might command devotion.

“Fanny!” said Serena, much amused by the frequent visits of the rival Masters, “if there should be a Mrs King or a Mrs Guynette, which I’m sure I hope there may not be, I shudder to think of the evil passions you must be arousing in their bosoms!”

“I?” exclaimed Fanny, startled. “Good God, what can you mean?”

Serena laughed at her. “Well, how many times have these assiduous gentlemen found it necessary to call in Laura Place? I swear I’ve lost count! There was Mr King, coming to promise you a secluded place if only you could be brought to attend some lecture or other at the Upper Rooms; there was Mr Guynette, bethinking himself that you might not know which are the best stables for your carriage-horses; there was the occasion when—”

“Serena! Oh, hush!” Fanny cried, blushing and aghast. “I’m sure they have both been very kind, but—”

“Excessively kind! And so attentive! When Mr Guynette ran out of the Pump Room to summon a chair for you on Tuesday, only because three drops of rain had fallen, I began to think that it is you who need a chaperon, not I!”

“Oh, I know you are funning, but indeed I wish you will not!” Fanny said, distressed. “It would be so very unbecoming in me, and in them, too! And it is all nonsense! They feel it to be their duty to do everything in their power to make any visitor’s stay in Bath agreeable!” A dreadful thought occurred to her; she fixed her innocent blue eyes on Serena’s face, and gasped: “Serena! I have not—I have not appeared fast??”

“No, no!” Serena said soothingly. “Just pathetic!” She perceived that Fanny was seriously discomposed, and added:

“Goose! I was only quizzing you!”

“If I thought that I had seemed to be encouraging any gentleman to pay me undue attentions, it would be the most shocking thing, and would destroy all my pleasure in being in Bath!”

Serena reassured her, reflecting, not for the first time, that it was seldom wise to employ a rallying tone with her. The tone of her mind was serious, and she was more prone to be shocked than amused by encounters with more lively spirits. There could be no doubt that her air of youthful helplessness, coupled, as it was, with an ethereal beauty, had awakened chivalry in two middle-aged gentlemen, but Serena refrained from telling her so. Not the most severe critic could suspect her of flirtatiousness; and not for worlds would Serena have destroyed her pleasure in being in Bath.

This was very real. Looking at the shop windows, listening to the orchestra in the Pump Room, walking, on fine days, in Sydney Gardens, noting each new face that appeared, speculating on the relationships and identities of the various habitués of the Pump Room, seemed to be just what she liked. She was sure the man who always wore a pink flower in his buttonhole must be the brother, and not the husband, of the fat woman with the yellow wig. There was a pronounced likeness: did not Serena agree? And had Serena noticed the bonnet with the green feathers which that odd-looking woman who dressed in such an antiquated style was wearing? She had seen it displayed in the window of that milliner’s in Milsom Street only last week, and with the most shocking price attached! Serena always returned satisfactory answers, but had she told the truth she would have said that she had never noticed the fat woman in the yellow wig, or the odd-looking woman either.

The fact was that the dawdling life in Bath suited Serena no better than life at the Dower House. Mingled with the ache in her heart for the loss of one who had been more a companion than a father, was a restlessness, a yearning for she scarcely knew what, which found its only relief in gallops over the surrounding countryside. Owing to the steepness of its streets, carriages were not much used in Bath, chairmen supplanting coachmen in the task of conveying ladies to balls and concerts. Fanny had entertained serious thoughts of sending home her barouche, and could not understand the impulse which prompted Serena, morning after morning, to escape from Bath, attended only by her devoted but critical groom, Fobbing, to the surrounding hills. She knew that Serena had a great deal of uncomfortable energy, but she never realized that her more protracted expeditions coincided with the arrival in Laura Place of one of Lady Theresa Eaglesham’s punctual letters; and certainly never suspected that these letters, which seemed to her to be tiresomely full of dull political news, made Serena feel that she had slipped out of the world. To Fanny, the loss of London dinner-parties where little was talked of but a Government crisis, or a victory over the Opposition, was a gain; and she could not conceive what there was to excite interest in the news that the Grenvilles and the Foxites were splitting, in consequence of Brougham’s speech. The fortunes of Whig and Tory were of far less moment to Fanny than the fear that her mama might send her sister Agnes to Bath, to bear her company.

This dread seriously impaired Fanny’s peace of mind, until it became apparent that Lady Claypole’s anxiety for the well-being of her married daughter was not of so urgent a nature as to prompt her either to go to Bath herself at the beginning of the London season, or to send thither a second daughter of rather more than marriageable age. Lady Claypole, with a third daughter straining at the schoolroom leash, would let no consideration interfere with her determination to achieve a respectable alliance for Agnes. She seemed to have abandoned all thought of a brilliant one, but hinted, in a crossed and double-crossed letter, that she cherished hopes of bringing a very worthy man of tolerable substance up to scratch. Fanny sighed over the letter, but was thankful to be spared Agnes’s companionship. An elder and jealous sister, who made up in learning what she lacked in beauty, and might be trusted to keep a censorious eye on her junior, could not add to her comfort. She infinitely preferred the society of her daughter-in-law, however little dependence Mama might place on dear Serena’s discretion. Mama could not approve of Serena. She said that she conducted herself as though the protection of a wedding-ring were hers, and had, at once, too great and too little a notion of her own consequence. Mama had seen her hobnobbing with quite unworthy persons, as though she thought her rank absolved her from the necessity (indispensable to every unmarried female) of behaving with reserve. Mama sincerely trusted she might not draw Fanny into some scrape, and ended her letter with an earnest adjuration to her daughter not to forget what her own situation now was, or what respect was due to the relict of an Earl.

Fanny replied dutifully to this missive, but even as her pen assured Lady Claypole that she misjudged dearest Serena, a feeling of guilt made it tremble into a blot. Something told her that Mama would deeply disapprove of Serena’s latest friendship. Indeed, it could not be denied that Serena was hobnobbing with a very ungenteel person.

The acquaintance had been struck up in the Pump Room, and in the oddest way. Upon several occasions, both she and Fanny had been diverted by the startling appearance presented by an elderly female of little height but astonishing girth, who, while she adhered, perhaps wisely, to the fashions of her youth, was not wise enough to resist the lure of bright colours. She had a jolly, masterful countenance, with three chins beneath it, and a profusion of improbable black ringlets above it, imperfectly confined by caps of various designs, worn under hats of amazing opulence. Serena drew giggling protests from Fanny by asserting that she had counted five ostrich plumes, one bunch of grapes, two of cherries, three large roses, and two rosettes on one of these creations. An inquiry elicited from Mr King the information that the lady was the widow of a rich merchant of Bristol—or he might have been a shipowner: Mr King could not take it upon himself to say. No doubt a very good sort of a woman in her way, but (her la’ship would agree) sadly out of place in such a select place as Bath. She was a resident, he was sorry to say, but he had never been more than distantly civil to her. Fabulously wealthy, he believed: for his part he deeply deplored the degeneracy of the times, and was happy to think he could remember the days when mere vulgar wealth would not have made it possible for a Mrs Floore to rub shoulders with my Lady Spenborough.

It might have been this speech, which she listened to with a contemptuous shrug, that inclined Serena to look with an indulgent eye upon Mrs Floore. The widow was a regular visitor to the Pump Room, and often, when not engaged in hailing her acquaintance, and laughing and chatting with them in cheerful but unrefined accents, would sit staring at Serena, in an approving but slightly embarrassing way. Serena, conscious of the fixed regard, at last returned it, her brows a little lifted, and was surprised to see the old lady nodding and smiling at her encouragingly. Considerably amused, she moved gracefully towards her. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but I think you wish to speak to me?”

“That’s a fact, for so I did!” said Mrs Floore. “Though whether your ladyship would condescend to speak to me was more than I could tell! Not but what I’ve been watching you close, and for all you’re so tall and high-stepping, my lady, you’ve a friendly way with you, and you don’t look to me to be so haughty you hold your nose up at ordinary folk!”

“Indeed, I hope not!” said Serena, laughing.

Mrs Floore poked a finger into the ribs of a mild-looking man seated in a chair beside her, and said: “I don’t know where your wits have gone a-begging, Tom Ramford! Get up and offer your place to Lady Serena, man!”

In great confusion, Mr Ramford hastily obeyed this sharp command. His apologies and protestations were cut short, Mrs Floore saying kindly, but with decision: “There, that’ll do! You take yourself off now!”

“Poor man!” said Serena, as she seated herself. “You are very severe, ma’am! Pray, how do you come to know my name?”

“Lord, my dear, everyone knows who you are! I’ll wager you don’t know who I am, though!”

“You would lose, ma’am. You are Mrs Floore, a resident, I believe, of Bath,” Serena retorted.

The old lady chuckled richly, all her chins quivering. “Ay, so I am, and I’ll be bound you know it because you asked someone who the deuce that old fright could be, dressed in a gown with panniers!”

“I did ask who you might be, but I did not so describe you!” instantly responded Serena.

“Lord, I wouldn’t blame you! I’d look a worse fright if I was to stuff myself into one of these newfangled gowns you all wear nowadays, with a waist under my armpits and a skirt as straight as a candle! All very well for you, my lady, with the lovely slim figure you have, but I’ll tell you what I’d look like, and that’s a sack of meal, with a string tied round it! Ay, that makes you laugh, and I see that it’s quite true about your eyelids, though I thought it a piece of girl’s nonsense when I was told about it: they do smile!”

“Good God, who can have told you anything so ridiculous, ma’am?” demanded Serena, colouring faintly.

“Ah, that’s just it!” said Mrs Floore. “I daresay you’ve been wondering what made me wishful to become acquainted with you. Well, I’ve got a granddaughter that thinks the world of your ladyship, and by all accounts you’ve been mighty kind to her.”

“A granddaughter?” Serena repeated, stiffening suddenly in her chair. “You cannot mean that you are—But, no! Surely Lady Lale—the person who springs to my mind—was a Miss Sebden?”

“So she was,” agreed Mrs Floore affably. “Sebden was my first, and Sukey’s papa. I’ve had two good husbands, and buried ’em both, which is more than Sukey can boast of, for all the airs she gives herself!”

“Good gracious!” Serena exclaimed, wishing with all her heart that Rotherham could have been present, to share (as he certainly would) her own enjoyment. “Well, then, I am very happy to know you, Mrs Floore, for I have a sincere regard for little Emily Laleham. She has often taken pity on our dullness this winter, you know. We—Lady Spenborough and I—missed her sadly when she went to London.”

Mrs Floore looked gratified, but said: “That’s just your kindness, my lady, that makes you say so. I don’t deny I’m uncommonly partial to Emma, but I ain’t a fool, and I can see who it was that took pity, even if Emma hadn’t talked so much about you I was in a fair way to hating the sound of your name! Sukey—for Sukey she’s always been to me, and always will be, let her say what she likes!—sent her to spend the New Year with me, and it was Lady Serena this, and Lady Serena that till I’d very likely have had a fit of the vapours, if I’d been a fine lady, which I thank God I’m not, nor ever could be!”

“What an infliction!” Serena said, smiling. “I am astonished you should have wished to become acquainted with me, ma’am! I think, you know, that when she was only a child Emily thought me a very dashing female, because I was used to hunt with my father, and do all manner of things which seemed very romantical to her! I hope she may be wiser now that she knows me better. I fear I’m no model for a young female to copy.”

“Well, that, begging your pardon, is where you’re out, my dear!” said Mrs Floore shrewdly. “You’ve done Emma a great deal of good, and I don’t scruple to tell you so! She’s a good little soul, and as pretty as she can stare, but she hasn’t a ha’porth of common sense, and between the pair of them, Sukey, and that piece of walking gentility which calls herself a governess and looks to me more like a dried herring in petticoats, were in a fair way to ruining the poor child! But Emma, admiring your ladyship like she did, had the wit to see the difference between your manners and the ones her ma and that Miss Prawle was trying to teach her! Prawle! I’d Prawle her! “Grandma,” Emma said to me, “Lady Serena is always quite unaffected, and she is as civil to her servants as to Dukes and Marquises and all, and I mean to behave exactly like her, because she came over with the Conqueror, and is a great lady!” Which,” concluded Mrs Floore, “I can see for myself, though what this Conqueror has to say to anything I’m sure I don’t know!”

“Oh, no! Nor anyone else!” uttered Serena, quite convulsed.

“I promise you, I took no account of him,” said Mrs Floore. “The Quality have their ways, and we have ours, and what may be all very well for high-born ladies don’t do for the parson’s daughter, as you may say. All I know is that Emma will do better to copy the manners of an Earl’s daughter than her ma’s, and so I told her!”

Serena could only say: “Indeed, she need copy no one’s manners, ma’am! Her own are very pleasing, and unaffected.”

“Well, to be sure, I think so,” said Mrs Floore, beaming upon her, “but I’m no judge, though I did marry a gentleman! Oh, yes! Mr Sebden was quite above my touch, and married me in the teeth of his grand relations, as you may say. You might not think it to look at me now, but I was very much admired when I was a girl. Dear me, yes! Such suitors as I had! Only I took a fancy to poor George, and though my Pa didn’t like the match above half, George being too idle and gentlemanly for his taste, he never could deny me anything I’d set my heart on, and so we were married, and very happily, too. Of course, his family pretty well cast him off, but he didn’t care a button for that, nor for turning me into a grand lady. Mind you, when Pa died, and left his whole fortune to me, the Sebdens began to pay me a lot of civilities, which was only to be expected, and which I was glad of, on account of Sukey. Yes, I thought nothing was too good for my Sukey, so pretty as she was, and with her Pa’s genteel ways and all! Ah, well! I often think now that her brother wouldn’t have grown up to despise his ma, however much money had been spent on sending him to a fashionable school!”

A gusty sigh prompted Serena to say: “Indeed, I didn’t know you had had a son that died! I am so sorry!”

“Well, I didn’t, not exactly,” said Mrs Floore. “Not but what I sometimes feel it just as much as if he had died, for I’m sure he’d have been a good, affectionate boy. The thing was I always longed for a son, but the Lord never blessed us with more than the one child. No. There was only Sukey, and everything that money could buy she had. She went to a grand school in London, and made all manner of fine friends there, I warrant you! So, when poor George died, and the Sebdens offered to bring Sukey out, I let them do it, and the next thing I knew was she was engaged to marry Sir Walter Laleham. Between you and me, my lady, he never seemed to me any great thing, though I’m bound to say I didn’t know then what he was going to cost me, first and last! Not that I grudge it, because this I will say: he may be a gamester and he may drink a deal too much, but he ain’t ashamed of his ma-in-law, and if it weren’t for Sukey I might go to his house, and welcome!”

Staggered by these extremely frank confidences, Serena could think of nothing better to say than: “I believe Sir Walter is generally very well liked. My father and he were at Eton together, and afterwards at Oxford.”

“Ay, were they so? Oh, well, it’s a fine thing for a man to be of the first rank, but it’s a better thing to have a bit of sense, if you’ll pardon my saying so! And what with offering for Sukey, who, he might ha’ known, would rule the roost, even if he’d been a Duke, and never having the wit to back the right horse, he’s my notion of a silly noddy! But, there! I shouldn’t be saying so, and no more I would have, only that there’s something about your ladyship I like, besides knowing you was kind to Emma. What’s more, says I to myself, if you’ve been living in the same place as Sukey it’s not likely I could tell you anything you didn’t know about her, because it’s my belief those airs of hers wouldn’t deceive a new-born baby! Now, would they?”

“I assure you, ma’am. Lady Laleham is—is everywhere received!”

“I know that well enough, my dear, and many’s the time I’ve enjoyed a laugh over it. For though I don’t deny it was marrying Sir Walter that took her into the first circles, it’s me that keeps her there!”

Meeting frankness with frankness, Serena said: “I don’t doubt it, ma’am. Even had I not guessed as much from things Emily has said, it is common knowledge that Sir Walter—as the saying goes—married money.”

Mrs Floore chuckled. “I’ll go bail it is! Ah, well! If it weren’t for the silly fellow getting knocked into horsenails so often, and him and Sukey not daring to provoke me for fear I might leave my fortune away from them, let alone providing for Emma’s coming-out, I daresay I should never see anything of either of ’em, nor my grandchildren neither, so maybe its all for the best. It suited Sukey very well when I married Ned Floore, because who’s to know I’m her ma, unless I tell ’em, which in the general way I don’t? What’s more, Floore was a very warm man, with never a chick nor child of his own, and every penny he had he left to me, and no strings tied to ’em! So whenever I feel low I tell Sukey I’ve taken a fancy to pay her a visit in her fine London house. It’s as good as a play to see how many excuses she’ll make up to put me off, never dreaming that I do it only to tease her! I never had any taste for grand company myself, but Sukey has, and you can say that’s my doing, for having sent her to a smart school. So she needn’t be afraid! I can’t help laughing at her, but I’ve got no notion of embarrassing her: no, nor Emma either!”

“I am very sure, ma’am, that Emma at least you could not embarrass. She speaks of you with so much affection!”

“Bless her heart!” said Mrs Floore. “All the same, my lady, it wouldn’t do her a bit of good if I was to go around telling everyone I’m her grandma, so I beg you won’t mention it. I’ve been letting my tongue run away with me, like I shouldn’t, but you’re one of those that can be trusted, that’s certain!”

“Thank you! If you wish it, I will not mention the relationship to anyone but Lady Spenborough, and her you may also trust.”

“Poor young thing!” remarked Mrs Floore. “Such a sweet face as she has! It quite goes to my heart to see her in her weeds, and she no more than a baby. There! The General is taking his leave of her, and she’ll be looking to see what’s become of you. You’d best go, my lady, for I daresay she wouldn’t think it a proper thing for you to be sitting chatting to me.”

“Not at all,” said Serena calmly, making a sign to Fanny. “If you will allow me, I should like to make you known to her, ma’am.” She smiled at Fanny, as she came up, and said: “Fanny, I wish to introduce Mrs Floore to you, who is Emily’s grandmama.”

Fanny, however astonished she might be, was far too well-bred to betray any other emotions than civil complaisance. She bowed, and held out her hand, which, after heaving herself on to her feet, Mrs Floore shook with great heartiness, saying that she was honoured, and only wished Sukey could see her.

“Which, however, it’s just as well she can’t. And if ever you should find yourselves in Beaufort Square, that’s where I live, and a warm welcome you’d have from me—and no offence taken if you don’t choose to come!”

“Thank you, we should like very much to visit you,” replied Serena.

“So kind!” murmured Fanny.

Mrs Floore beamed all over her face. “Then I’ll tell you what you should do, my dears: just you send your footman round to tell me you mean to pay me a call, and if it should happen that there’s company with me I’ll send ’em packing, because for one thing it wouldn’t be seemly for you to be going to parties, and for another my friends ain’t just in your style, any more than I am myself, the only difference between us being that I shan’t holler at you across the street, or go prating about you all over Bath, which one or two I know might!”

With these reassuring words, she shook hands again, blessed Serena’s lovely face, and waddled away.

“Serena!” breathed Fanny. “What an extraordinary creature!”

“Yes, but quite delightful, I promise you!”

“But, Serena, she is dreadfully vulgar! You cannot really mean to visit her!”

“Certainly I mean to, and I shall think very poorly of you if you don’t accompany me!”

“But, dearest, do you—do you think your papa would have permitted it?” Fanny ventured to say.

That made Serena laugh. “My dear Fanny, you know very well Papa never interfered with me, or thought himself too grand to rub shoulders with the rest of the world!”

“Oh, no, no, I never meant—only I can’t help feeling that everyone would say I ought not to let you become acquainted with vulgar persons, and in particular your Aunt Theresa, though how she thinks I can prevent you from doing exactly as you choose when she could not, I’m sure I don’t know!” said Fanny despairingly.