July 15th.

I was not in the least interested to know anything about what Will Dudley and Rachel Greaves talked about together, but I was anxious to find out if she had said anything to show him that I was really grown-up, instead of the child he thought me; so the next time we met I asked her plump and plain—

“What did you and Mr Dudley say about me the other morning?”

We were walking along a lane together, and she turned her head and stared at me in blank surprise.

“About you? The other morning? We—we never spoke of you at all!”

Then I suppose I looked angry, or red, or something, for she seemed in a tremendous hurry to appease me.

“We have a great many interests in common. When we lived in town we belonged to the same societies, and worked for the same charities. It is interesting to remember old days, and tell each other the latest news we have heard about the work and its progress.”

“Then you knew him before he came here? He is not a new friend?”

“Oh, no—we have known him for years. It was father who got him his present position.”

“And you like him very much?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “Isn’t it lovely to see the hedges covered with the wild roses? I think they are almost my favourite flower—so dainty and delicate.”

“Nasty, prickly things—I hate them!” I cried; for I do detest being snubbed, and she could not have told me more plainly in so many words that she did not choose to speak of Will Dudley. Why not? I wonder. Was there some mystery about their friendship? I should not mind talking about anyone I know, and it was really absurd of Rachel to be so silent and reserved. I determined not to ask her any more questions, but to tackle Mr Dudley himself.

Two days after there was the garden party, where I knew we should meet. He was bound to go, as it was on the estate where he was living, and I was to make my first formal appearance in society, in the prettiest dress and hat you can possibly imagine. Mother was quite pleased with me because I let her and Johnson fuss as much as they liked, and tie on my white veil three times over to get it in the right folds. Then I looked in the glass at my sweeping skirts, and hair all beautifully done up, and laughed to think how different I looked from Babs of the morning hours.

We drove off in state, and I was quite excited at the prospect of the fray; but I do think garden parties are dreadfully dull affairs! A band plays on the lawn, and people stroll about, and criticise one another’s dresses, and look at the flowers. They are very greedy affairs, too, for really and truly we were eating all the time—tea and iced coffee when we arrived; ices, and fruits, and nice things to drink until the moment we came away. I don’t mean to say that I ate straight on, of course, but waiters kept walking about with trays, and I noticed particularly what they were like, so as not to take two ices running from the same man. I had a strawberry, and a vanilla, and a lemon—but that was watery, and I didn’t like it. I was talking to the hostess, when I saw Mr Dudley coming towards us, and he looked at me with such a blank, unrecognising stare that I saw at once he had no idea who I was. Mrs Darcy talked to him for a moment while I kept the brim of my hat tilted over my face, then she said—

“Don’t you know Miss Sackville? Allow me to introduce Mr Dudley, dear. Do take her to have some refreshment, like a good man. I am sure she has had nothing to eat!”

I thought of the coffee, and the ices, and the lemonade and the sandwiches, but said nothing, and we sauntered across the lawn together talking in the usual ridiculous grown-up fashion.

“Lovely day, isn’t it?”

“Quite charming. So fortunate for Mrs Darcy.”

“Beautiful garden, isn’t it?”

“Charming! Such lovely roses!”

“Beautiful band, isn’t it?”

“Oh, charming! Quite charming!”

Then he seated me at a little table and provided me with an ice, (number four), and stared furtively at me from the opposite side. It was fun. I crinkled my veil up over my nose and tilted my hat over my forehead, and shot a glance at him every now and then, to find his eyes fixed on me—not recognising at all, but evidently so puzzled and mystified to think who I could be. Father had told him only a week before that Vere would not be home for a month—and now who was this third Miss Sackville who had suddenly appeared upon the scene?

“You have returned home rather sooner than you intended, haven’t you?” he inquired, and I shook my head and said—

“Oh, no, I kept to the exact date. I always do! What makes you think otherwise?”

“I—er—I thought I heard you were not expected for some time to come. You have been staying with friends?”

“Oh, a number of friends! Quite a huge house party. I feel quite lost without them all.”

He would have been rather surprised if I had explained that the party consisted of forty women and no man, but that was not his business, and it was perfectly true that I missed them badly. All the Rachel Greaveses in the world would never make up for Lorna and the rest!

“But you have your sister!” he said. “I have seen a good deal of your sister in her morning walks with Mr Sackville. She is a charming child, and most companionable; I am sure she will be a host in herself!”

“It’s very good of you! I can’t tell you how pleased I am to hear you say so!” I said suavely; but do what I would, I could not resist a giggle, and he stared at me harder than ever, and looked so confused. I was so afraid that he would find me out and spoil the fun that I determined not to try to keep up the delusion any longer. He was going to cross-question me, I could see it quite plainly, so I lay back in my chair, smoothed out my veil, and smiled at him in my most fascinating manner.

“I’m so pleased that you have formed such a good opinion of me, Mr Dudley! I was really afraid you had forgotten me altogether, for you seemed hardly to recognise me a few minutes ago.”

He leant both arms on the table so that his face was quite near to mine. “Who are you?” he asked, and I laughed, and nodded in reply.

“I’m Babs—Una Sackville is my name—England is my nation, Branfield is my dwelling—”

“Don’t joke, please. I want to understand. You—are—Babs! Have you been deliberately deceiving me, then? Pray, what has been your object in posing as a child all these weeks!”

That made me furious, and I cried hotly—

“I never posed at all—I never deceived you! Father treats me as a child, and you followed his example as a matter of course, and I was very pleased to be friends in a sensible manner without any nonsense. If I had said, ‘Please, I’m nineteen—I’ve left school, and am coming out—this is a hockey skirt, but I wear tails in the evening,’ you would have been proper, and stiff, and have talked about the weather, and we should have had no fun. If anyone is to blame, it is you, for not seeing how really old I was!”

He smiled at that, and went on staring, staring at my face, my hair, my long white gloves, the muslin flounces lying on the ground round my feet.

“So very old!” he said. “Nineteen, is it? And I put you down as—fourteen or fifteen, at the most! And so Babs has disappeared. Exit Babs! I’m sorry. She was a nice child; I enjoyed meeting her very much. I think we should have been real good friends.”

“She has not disappeared at all. You will meet her to-morrow morning. There is nothing to prevent us being as good friends as ever,” I declared, but he shook his head in a mysterious fashion.

“I think there is! There’s a third person on the scene now who will make it difficult—for me, at least—to go back to the same footing. There’s Una!” he said, and looked at me with his bright grey eyes, up and down, down and up again, in a grave, quiet sort of way which I had never seen before. It made me feel nice, but rather uncomfortable, and I was glad when he brightened up again, and said gaily—

“I owe a hundred apologies for my lack of ceremony to this fine, this very fine, this super-fine young lady! I’ll turn over a new leaf for the future, and treat you with becoming ceremony. I can quite imagine the disgust of the budding débutante at my cavalier ways. Confess now that your dignity was sorely wounded?”

His eyes were twinkling again. They are grey, and his face is so brown that they look lighter than the skin. I never saw anyone’s eyes look like that before, but it is awfully nice. I thought there was a splendid opening, so I said—

“No; I was never vexed but once. I like being treated sensibly, but that morning when you left me, and went out of your way with Rachel Greaves—I was sorry then that you did not know that I was grown up.”

“You thought if I had I would have walked with you instead? Why?”

I blushed a little, and it seemed to me that he blushed too—his cheeks certainly looked hot. It was a horrid question to answer, and he must have known for himself what I meant. I really and truly don’t think many men would go out of their way for Rachel Greaves. I answered by another question—it was the easiest way.

“I didn’t know then that you were old friends. I suppose you get to like her better when you know her well?”

“Naturally. That is always the case with the best people.”

“And she is—”

“The best woman I have ever met, and the most selfless!” he said solemnly. “Have you spoken to Rachel about me? What has she told you? I should like you to know the truth, though it is not yet general property. You can keep it to yourself for awhile?”

I nodded. I didn’t want to speak, for I felt a big, hard lump swelling in my throat, and my heart thumped. I knew quite well what he was going to say, and I hated it beforehand.

“We are engaged to be married. It will probably be an engagement for years, for Rachel feels her present duty is at home, and I am content to wait her pleasure. I don’t go up to the house very often, as the old gentleman is an invalid, and dislikes visitors, but we understand one another, and are too sensible to fret because we cannot always be together. Only when an opportunity occurs, as it did the other morning— Why—you understand?”

“Yes, I understand,” I said slowly. I was thinking it over, and wondering, if I were ever engaged, if I should like my fiancé to be content and sensible, and quite resigned to see me seldom, and to wait for years before we could be married. I think I would rather he were in a hurry!

Oh, I wish I were selfless, too! I wish I could be glad for them without thinking of myself; but I do feel so lonely and out in the cold. I’m thankful that Vere is coming home next week, and the house will be filled with visitors. Engaged people are no use—they are always thinking about each other!