Charlotte gazed at her sister again.  Gertrude’s imagination seemed to her to be fairly running riot.  She had always known that Gertrude had a great deal of imagination—­she had been very proud of it.  But at the same time she had always felt that it was a dangerous and irresponsible faculty; and now, to her sense, for the moment, it seemed to threaten to make her sister a strange person who should come in suddenly, as from a journey, talking of the peculiar and possibly unpleasant things she had observed.  Charlotte’s imagination took no journeys whatever; she kept it, as it were, in her pocket, with the other furniture of this receptacle—­a thimble, a little box of peppermint, and a morsel of court-plaster.  “I don’t believe she would have any dinner—­or any breakfast,” said Miss Wentworth.  “I don’t believe she knows how to do anything herself.  I should have to get her ever so many servants, and she would n’t like them.”

“She has a maid,” said Gertrude; “a French maid.  She mentioned her.”

“I wonder if the maid has a little fluted cap and red slippers,” said Lizzie Acton.  “There was a French maid in that play that Robert took me to see.  She had pink stockings; she was very wicked.”

“She was a soubrette,” Gertrude announced, who had never seen a play in her life.  “They call that a soubrette.  It will be a great chance to learn French.”  Charlotte gave a little soft, helpless groan.  She had a vision of a wicked, theatrical person, clad in pink stockings and red shoes, and speaking, with confounding volubility, an incomprehensible tongue, flitting through the sacred penetralia of that large, clean house.  “That is one reason in favor of their coming here,” Gertrude went on.  “But we can make Eugenia speak French to us, and Felix.  I mean to begin—­the next time.”

Mr. Wentworth had kept her standing near him, and he gave her his earnest, thin, unresponsive glance again.  “I want you to make me a promise, Gertrude,” he said.

“What is it?” she asked, smiling.

“Not to get excited.  Not to allow these—­these occurrences to be an occasion for excitement.”

She looked down at him a moment, and then she shook her head.  “I don’t think I can promise that, father.  I am excited already.”

Mr. Wentworth was silent a while; they all were silent, as if in recognition of something audacious and portentous.

“I think they had better go to the other house,” said Charlotte, quietly.

“I shall keep them in the other house,” Mr. Wentworth subjoined, more pregnantly.

Gertrude turned away; then she looked across at Robert Acton.  Her cousin Robert was a great friend of hers; she often looked at him this way instead of saying things.  Her glance on this occasion, however, struck him as a substitute for a larger volume of diffident utterance than usual, inviting him to observe, among other things, the inefficiency of her father’s design—­if design it was—­for diminishing,