Helen looked at her.  Her face was weak rather than decided, saved from insipidity by the large enquiring eyes; denied beauty, now that she was sheltered indoors, by the lack of colour and definite outline.  Moreover, a hesitation in speaking, or rather a tendency to use the wrong words, made her seem more than normally incompetent for her years.  Mrs. Ambrose, who had been speaking much at random, now reflected that she certainly did not look forward to the intimacy of three or four weeks on board ship which was threatened.  Women of her own age usually boring her, she supposed that girls would be worse.  She glanced at Rachel again.  Yes! how clear it was that she would be vacillating, emotional, and when you said something to her it would make no more lasting impression than the stroke of a stick upon water.  There was nothing to take hold of in girls—­nothing hard, permanent, satisfactory.  Did Willoughby say three weeks, or did he say four?  She tried to remember.

At this point, however, the door opened and a tall burly man entered the room, came forward and shook Helen’s hand with an emotional kind of heartiness, Willoughby himself, Rachel’s father, Helen’s brother-in-law.  As a great deal of flesh would have been needed to make a fat man of him, his frame being so large, he was not fat; his face was a large framework too, looking, by the smallness of the features and the glow in the hollow of the cheek, more fitted to withstand assaults of the weather than to express sentiments and emotions, or to respond to them in others.

“It is a great pleasure that you have come,” he said, “for both of us.”

Rachel murmured in obedience to her father’s glance.

“We’ll do our best to make you comfortable.  And Ridley.  We think it an honour to have charge of him.  Pepper’ll have some one to contradict him—­which I daren’t do.  You find this child grown, don’t you?  A young woman, eh?”

Still holding Helen’s hand he drew his arm round Rachel’s shoulder, thus making them come uncomfortably close, but Helen forbore to look.

“You think she does us credit?” he asked.

“Oh yes,” said Helen.

“Because we expect great things of her,” he continued, squeezing his daughter’s arm and releasing her.  “But about you now.”  They sat down side by side on the little sofa.  “Did you leave the children well?  They’ll be ready for school, I suppose.  Do they take after you or Ambrose?  They’ve got good heads on their shoulders, I’ll be bound?”

At this Helen immediately brightened more than she had yet done, and explained that her son was six and her daughter ten.  Everybody said that her boy was like her and her girl like Ridley.  As for brains, they were quick brats, she thought, and modestly she ventured on a little story about her son,—­how left alone for a minute he had taken the pat of butter in his fingers, run across the room with it, and put it on the fire—­merely for the fun of the thing, a feeling which she could understand.