our English way, isn’t it?—­and somehow things come right.  Now, I am very political, and Winifred’s very churchy—­it doesn’t really matter what you take up.  So do come.  You can bring your maid and have a sitting-room.  Nobody would interfere with you.  But, of course, we should introduce you to some nice people.  If you are a sensible girl—­and I expect you are, for your father was a very clever man—­you must know that you ought to marry as soon as possible.  There aren’t many young men about here.  What becomes of all the young men in England, I’m sure I don’t know.  But there are a few—­and quite possible.  There are the Kenbarrows, about four miles off—­a large family—­nouveaux riches—­the father made buttons, or something of the kind.  But the children are all most presentable, and enormously rich.  And, of course, there are the Fallodens—­quite near—­Mr. and Lady Laura, Douglas, the eldest son, a girl of seventeen, and two children.  You’ll probably see Douglas at Oxford.  Oh, I believe Sir Arthur Falloden, pere, told me the other day you had already met him somewhere.  Winifred and I don’t like Douglas.  But that’s neither here nor there.  He’s a magnificent creature, who can’t be bothered with old ladies.  He’ll no doubt make himself agreeable to you—­cela va sans dire.  I don’t altogether like what I hear sometimes about the Fallodens.  Of course Sir Arthur’s very rich, but they say he’s been speculating enormously, and that he’s been losing a good deal of money lately.  However, I don’t suppose it matters.  Their place, Flood Castle, is really splendid—­old to begin with, and done up!  They have copied the Americans and given every room a bathroom.  Absurd extravagance!  And think of the plumbing!  It was that kind of thing gave the Prince of Wales typhoid.  I hate drains!

“Well, anyway, do come and see us.  Sophia Langmoor tells me she has written to you, and if you go to her, you might come on here afterwards.  Winifred who has just read this letter says it will ‘put you off.’  I don’t see why it should.  I certainly don’t want it to.  I’m downright, I know, but I’m not hypocritical.  The world’s just run on white lies nowadays—­and I can’t stand it.  I don’t tell any—­if I can help.

“Oh, and there is Penfold Rectory not very far off—­and a very nice man there, though too ‘broad’ for Winifred.  He tells me he’s going to have some people staying with him—­a Mr. Sorell, and a young musician with a Polish name—­I can’t remember it.  Mr. Sorell’s going to coach the young man, or something.  They’re to be paying guests, for a month at least.  Mr. Powell was Mr. Sorell’s college tutor—­and Mr. Powell’s dreadfully poor—­so I’m glad.  No wife, mercifully!

“Anyway, you see, there are plenty of people about.  Do come.

“I am, dear Constance,
   Your affectionate aunt,
      MARCIA RISBOROUGH.”

“Now what on earth am I going to do about that?” said Constance, tossing the letter over to Annette.