“You need not be alarmed,” said Elinor.  “I dont want any clothes.  I can go as I am.”

“You dont know what you are talking about, child,” said Mrs. McQuinch.

“A nice figure you would make in uncle Reginald’s drawing-room with that dress on!” said Lydia.

“And your hair in that state!” added Jane.

“You should remember that there are others to be considered besides yourself,” said Lydia.  “How would you like your guests to look like scarecrows?”

“How could you expect Marian to go about with you, or into the Park?  I suppose——­”

“Here, here!” said Mr. McQuinch, putting down his paper.  “Let us have no more of this.  What else do you need in the Park than a riding habit?  You have that already.  Whatever clothes you want you had better get in London, where you will get the proper things for your money.”

“Indeed, Hardy, she is not going to pay a London milliner four prices for things she can get quite as good down here.”

“I tell you I dont want anything,” said Elinor impatiently.  “It will be time enough to begrudge me some decent clothes when I ask for them.”

“I dont begrudge——­”

Mrs. McQuinch’s husband interrupted her.  “Thats enough, now, everybody.  It’s settled that she is to go, as she wants to.  I will get her what is necessary.  Give me another egg, and talk about something else.”

Accordingly, Elinor went to live at Westbourne Terrace.  Marian had spent a month of her childhood in Wiltshire, and had made of Elinor an exacting friend, always ready to take offence, and to remain jealous and sulky for days if one of her sisters, or any other little girl, engaged her cousin’s attention long.  On the other hand, Elinor’s attachment was idolatrous in its intensity; and as Marian was sweet-tempered, and more apt to fear that she had disregarded Elinor’s feelings than to take offence at her waywardness, their friendship endured after they were parted.  Their promises of correspondence were redeemed by Elinor with very long letters at uncertain intervals, and by Marian with shorter epistles notifying all her important movements.  Marian, often called upon to defend her cousin from the charge of being a little shrew, was led to dwell upon her better qualities.  Elinor found in Marian what she had never found at her own home, a friend, and in her uncle’s house a refuge from that of her father, which she hated.  She had been Marian’s companion for four years when the concert took place at Wandsworth.

Next day they were together in the drawing-room at Westbourne Terrace:  Marian writing, Elinor at the pianoforte, working at some technical studies, to which she had been incited by the shortcoming of her performance on the previous night.  She stopped on hearing a bell ring.

“What o’clock is it?” she said, after listening a moment.  “Surely it is too early for a visit.”

“It is only half past two,” replied Marian.  “I hope it is not anybody.  I have not half finished my correspondence.”