“Do forgive me!  I thought—­to tell the truth, it was my uncle—­I had spoken of you to him, and he said he should so much like to meet you.”

“It really doesn’t matter; but I look rather like the woman who comes to buy old dresses, don’t I?”

Ivy laughed.

“Of course not!”

“And what if I do?” exclaimed the other, seating herself by the fire.  “I don’t know that I’ve any claim to look better than Mrs. Moss.  I suppose she and I are about on a level in understanding and education, if the truth were told.  Your uncle would see that, of course.”

“Now, don’t—­don’t!” pleaded Ivy, bending over the chair and stroking her friend’s shoulder.  “It’s so wrong of you, dear.  My father and Uncle Eustace are both quite capable of judging you rightly.”

“What did you tell him about me—­your uncle?” asked Serena, pettishly.

“That you were my friend, and that we read together”——­

“Oh, of course!  What else?”

Ivy faltered.

“I explained who you were.”

“That I had a ridiculous name, and was the daughter of silly people!”

“Oh, it is unkind of you!”

“Well, and what else?  I insist on knowing, Ivy.”

“Indeed, I didn’t say one word that you mightn’t have heard yourself.  I think you can believe me, dear?”

“To be sure I can.  But then no doubt your father told him the rest, or has done by this time.  There’s no harm in that.  I like people to know that I am independent.  Well, now tell me about him.  He isn’t a great favourite of yours, is he?”

“No, not a great favourite.”  Ivy seemed always to weigh her words.  “I don’t know him very well.  He has always lived in London, and I’ve never seen him more than once a year.  I’m afraid he doesn’t care much about the things that I prize most, but he is kind and very clever, I believe.  Father always says he might have been a great artist if he had chosen.”

“Then why didn’t he choose?”

“I can’t say.  So many people seem to fall far short of what they might have been.”

“Women do—­what else can you expect?  But men are free.  I suppose he is rich?”

“No, not rich.  He seems to have enough for his needs.”

Serena indulged her thoughts.

“I felt I disliked him at first,” she said, presently.  “But he is improved.  He can talk well, I should think.  I suppose he is always in clever society?”

“I suppose so.”

“And why doesn’t he invite you to London, and take you to see people?”

“Oh, he knows me better than that!” replied Ivy, with a laugh.

Whilst the girls talked thus, Eustace Glazzard and his brother were also in confidential chat.  They had gone to the library and made themselves comfortable with cigars—­a cellaret and glasses standing within reach.  The rooms at Highmead gave evidence of neglect.  Guests were seldom entertained; the servants were few, and not well looked after.