The pretty lady came to call the very next week. Mrs Trevor and Betty were busy sewing in the upstairs workroom when the maid brought up the card, and the first sight of it brought no enlightenment.
“Mrs Gervase Vanburgh! Goodness! What a fine name! Who can she be? Do you know who it is, mother?”
“Not in the least, dear. One of the neighbours, perhaps. We will go down and see.”
Betty smoothed her hair before the looking-glass, and then as carefully fluffed it out, shook her skirt free from the little ends of thread which would stick to the rough blue cloth, and followed her mother to the drawing-room, for now that she was over seventeen it was Mrs Trevor’s wish that she should learn to help in social duties. Half-way downstairs inspiration dawned. “I believe it’s the pretty lady! Jill said she was coming!” she whispered breathlessly. The pleasant expectation brought a flush into her cheeks, and an added into her eyes, so that it was in her most attractive that she entered the drawing-room in her mother’s train.
Yes! It was the pretty lady and no one else, prettier than ever in her very smartest clothes, sitting in orthodox fashion, on a stiff upright chair, card-case in hand, and discussing the weather and the advantages and disadvantages of the neighbourhood with the of an old married woman; yet ever and anon as she glanced at Betty there was a something in her face,—a smile, a tremble, a uplifting of the eyebrow,—which an unspoken sympathy. “We understand each other, you and I!” it seemed to say. “This is only a . The real business will begin when we are alone, but—don’t I do it well?” Betty twinkled back, and was content to wait her turn, knowing that it would surely come.
Yes, Mrs Vanburgh said, she and her husband had only lately returned to their town house. They had a little place in the country, and spent a great deal of time with an old uncle who was an , and very fond of young society. No! She did not care for town life, but for her husband’s sake she made the best of it for a few months in the year. The days seemed very long when one was obliged to turn on the lights before four o’clock. Oh yes, she was fond of reading—sometimes! But one seemed to need some more active occupation. She did a good deal of wood-carving. Did Miss Trevor go in for wood-carving? Would she care to take it up? It would be so very nice to have a companion, and all the tools were lying in readiness just across the road.
“Thank you so much. I’d love it!” cried Betty, all pink with excitement and pleasure. “I take a few classes still—music and French—but my afternoons are mostly free. I could come any time.”
“To-day?” the pretty lady, raising her pretty eagerly. “Now? Come back with me and have tea, and I’ll show you my , and you can decide what you will try first.”
It was all very irregular and unconventional, because, of course, the proper thing would have been for Mrs Vanburgh to have waited quietly until Mrs Trevor had returned her call, and even for a period after that, before sending a formal invitation. Nevertheless Mrs Trevor had not the heart to . She remembered her own youth, and the which it had then afforded her to be able to do things at once; she saw the radiance in Betty’s face, and realised that her visitor was only a girl herself, so that when Betty turned towards her a flushed, appealing face, she smiled indulgently, and said, “Certainly, dear! It is very kind of Mrs Vanburgh to ask you. Run upstairs and put on your hat.”
Betty lost no time in taking advantage of this permission, and in ten minutes’ time the extraordinary thing came to pass, that she and the pretty lady were walking along the Square, chatting together as if they had been friends of years’ .
Mrs Vanburgh paused upon the threshold to give some instructions to the servant, then escorted Betty straight upstairs to a big, bare room on the third floor, which she described as her “lair.”
“No one ever sits here but myself, and I can make as much mess as I like. It’s lovely!” she explained, and forthwith turned on the electric light, and up the fire, for the atmosphere was distinctly . It was certainly not a tidy apartment, no one could have said that for it, but it was extremely interesting from a girl’s point of view. The wood-carving bench occupied the place of honour before the window; but there were evidences that the owner more hobbies than one, for a piece of was in process of being beaten into a pattern of pomegranates and leaves, a work-table was littered with and ends, and on an old black tray was a medallion portrait of a gentleman, manufactured out of plasticine, a lump of which lay by its side.
Young Mrs Vanburgh held out the tray towards Betty with a dramatic gesture.
“That’s my husband! Let me introduce you—Mr Gervase Vanburgh—Miss Trevor! Would you believe, to look at him there, that he is quite the handsomest man you ever ?”
Betty looked at the grey profile, and sniggered helplessly.
“I’m afraid I never should!”
“No, it’s ! I’m just beginning modelling, and it’s not a success. I suppose it’s because I can’t draw well enough. What is wrong, do you think?”
“Everything!” Betty felt inclined to say, but politely compromised by pointing out the most flagrant offences.
“The ear is on a level with the mouth. The eye is perched upon a , instead of being in a hollow; he has no , and oh! Water on the brain! He must have, with all that bump in front!”
“Goodness! What a critic! You might be one of my very own sisters!” cried Mrs Vanburgh, laughing. She looked at the profile scrutinisingly. “There’s one comfort—it can soon be altered. There! I’ll take a bit off his head. It’s the neatest shape in the world really. I don’t think I am born to be a . For one thing, I should never have the patience to clean my nails. This plasticine gets into all the nooks and crannies, and simply won’t come out!”
Betty had no sympathy to spare for nails. She was too much occupied in considering another problem. Mrs Vanburgh looked almost as young as herself, and was far more spontaneous and lively in manner; it seemed impossible to imagine her the mistress of this stately house, and the wife of the handsomest man in the world! There was all the natural of the unmarried for the married girl in her voice as she said—
“It is so strange to hear you talk of your husband. You don’t look a bit married. Doesn’t it feel very—queer?”
Mrs Vanburgh laughed happily.
“It feels very—nice! I have only one trouble in life, and that is that I am too happy. Yes, seriously, it does trouble me! It’s so difficult not to grow selfish when one is always petted, and praised, and considered first of all. I want to be of some use in the world. My husband says I am of use to him, and of course that’s my first duty, but it’s not enough. When I was married a dear old lady wrote me a letter, and said that marriage often became ‘the selfishness of two,’ and I do feel that it is true. It’s no credit to be good to someone who is dearer than yourself, and giving a few is no credit either when you are rich; it was a very different matter when you scraped them out of your dress allowance. I’ve thought over heaps of things that I could do, and at last I’ve decided—sit down, and I’ll tell you all about it! This is the comfiest chair. It’s so nice getting to know you first, because you can help. Ages ago I read a story by Sir Walter Besant, Katherine Regina was the name, I think. I forget what it was about, and all about it, except that one character was a poor governess living in a London ‘Home,’ knowing nobody, and having absolutely nowhere to go in he............