‘Well, I suppose I shall get hardened in time.’

‘My dearest Lesbia,’ shrieked Lady Kirkbank from below, ’remember we have to catch a train.’

Lesbia hurried downstairs, followed by Lady Maulevrier, who had to bid her friend adieu.  The luggage had been sent on in a cart, Lesbia’s trunks and dress baskets forming no small item.  She was so well furnished with pretty gowns of all kinds that there had been no difficulty in getting her ready for this sudden visit.  Her maid was on the box beside the coachman.  Lady Kirkbank’s attendant, a Frenchwoman of five-and-thirty, who looked as if she had graduated at Mabille, was to occupy the back seat of the landau.

Lady Mary looked after her sister longingly, as the carriage drove down the hill.  She was going into a new world, to see all kinds of people—­clever people—­distinguished people—­musical, artistic, political people—­hunting and shooting people—­while Mary was to stay at home all the winter among the old familiar faces.  Dearly as she loved these hills and vales her heart sank a little at the thought of those long lonely months, days and evenings that would be all alike, and which must be spent without sympathetic companionship.  And there would be dreary days on which the weather would keep her a prisoner in her luxurious gaol, when the mountains, and the rugged paths beside the mountain streams, would be inaccessible, when she would be restricted to Fraeulein’s phlegmatic society, that lady being stout and lazy, fond of her meals, and given to afternoon slumbers.  Lesbia and Mary were not by any means sympathetic; yet, after all, blood is thicker than water; and Lesbia was intelligent, and could talk of the things Mary loved, which was better than total dumbness, even if she generally took an antagonistic view of them.

‘I shall miss her dreadfully,’ thought Mary, as she strolled listlessly in the gardens, where the leaves where falling and the flowers fading.

‘I wonder if she will see Mr. Hammond at Lady Kirkbank’s?’ mused Mary.  ’If he were anything like a lover he would find out all about her visit, and seize the opportunity of her being away from grandmother.  But then if he had been much of a lover he would have followed her to St. Bees.’

Lady Maulevrier sorely missed her favourite grandchild.  In a life spent in such profound seclusion, so remote from the busy interests of the world, this beloved companionship had become a necessity to her.  She had concentrated her affections upon Lesbia, and the girl’s absence made a fearful blank.  But her ladyship’s dignity was not compromised by any outward signs of trouble or loss.

She spent her mornings in her own room, reading and writing and musing at her leisure; she drove or walked every fine afternoon, sometimes alone, sometimes attended by Mary, who hated these stately drives and walks.  She dined tete-a-tete with Mary, except on those rare occasions when there were visitors—­the Vicar and his wife, or some wandering star from other worlds Mary lived in profound awe of her grandmother, but was of far too frank a nature to be able to adapt her speech or her manners to her ladyship’s idea of feminine perfection.  She was silent and shy under those falcon eyes; but she was still the same Mary, the girl to whom pretence or simulation of any kind was impossible.