_July 10th_.
To-day I went a round of calls with mother, driving round the country
for over twenty miles. It was rather dull in one way and interesting in
another, for I do like to see other people's drawing-rooms and how they
arrange the things. Some are all new and garish, and look as if they
were never used except for an hour or two in the evening, and some are
grand and stiff like a hotel, and others are all sweet and chintzy and
home-like, with lots of plants and a scent of _pot-pourri_ in china
vases. That's the sort of room I like. I mean to marry a man who
belongs to a very ancient family, so that I may have lots of beautiful
old furniture.
Mother gave me histories of the various hostesses as we drove up to the
houses.
"A dreadfully trying woman, I do hope she is out." "Rather amusing. I
should like you to see her." "A most hopeless person--absolutely no
conversation. Now, darling, take a lesson from her and never, never
allow yourself to relapse into monosyllables. It is such a hopeless
struggle if all one's remarks are greeted with a `No' or a `Yes,' and
when girls first come out they are very apt to fall into this habit.
Make a rule that you will never reply to a question in less than four
words, and it is wonderful what a help you will find it.
"Twist the ends of your veil, dear, they are sticking out... Oh dear,
dear, she is at home! I do have such shocking bad fortune."
She trailed out of the carriage sighing so deeply that I was terrified
lest the servant should hear. I shall never call on people unless I
want to see them. It does seem such a farce to grumble because they are
at home, and then to be sweet and pleasant when you meet.
Mrs Greaves was certainly very silent, but I liked her. She looked
worn and tired, but she had beautiful soft brown eyes which looked at
you and seemed to say a great deal more than her lips. Do you know the
kind of feeling when you like people and know they like you in return?
I was perfectly certain Mrs Greaves had taken a fancy to me before she
said, "I should like to introduce my daughter to you," and sent a
message upstairs by the servant. I wondered what the girl would be
like; a young edition of Mrs Greaves might be pretty, but there was an
expression on mother's face which made me uncertain. Then she came in,
a pale badly dressed girl, with a sweet face and shy awkward manners.
Her name was Rachel, and she took me to see the conservatory, and I
wondered what on earth we should find to say. Of course she asked first
of all--
"Are you fond of flowers?" and I remembered mother's rule and replied,
"Yes, I love them." That was four words, but it didn't seem to take us
much further somehow, so I made a terrific effort and added, "But I
don't know much about their names, do you?"
"Yes, I think I do. I feel as if it was a kind of courtesy we owe them
for giving us so much pleasure. We take it as a slight if our own
friends mispronounce or misspell our own names, and surely flowers
deserve as much consideration from us," quoth she.
Goodness! how frightfully proper and correct. I felt so quelled that
there was no more spirit left in me, and I followed her round listening
to her learned descriptions and saying, "How pretty!" "Oh, really!" in
the most feeble manner you can imagine.
All the while I was really looking at her more than the flowers, and
discovering lots of things. Number one--sweet eyes just like her
mother's; number two--sweet lips with tiny little white teeth like a
child's; number three--a long white throat above that awful collar.
Quotient--a girl who ought to be quite sweet, but who made herself a
fright. I wondered why! Did she think it wrong to look nice--but then,
if she did, why did she love the flowers just for that very reason?
Rachel Greaves! I thought the name sounded like her somehow--old-
fashioned, and prim, and grey; but the next moment I felt ashamed, for,
as if she guessed what I was thinking, she turned to me and said
suddenly--
"Will you tell me your name? I ought to know it to add to my
collection, for you are like a flower yourself."