Emma reddened, as she replied with some dignity—
Yes, we called it dinner. When our last visitor had driven away, Emma turned to me and said—
“My stupid brain is in a whirl. I can compare this afternoon to nothing less than a reception at Government House. I feel loaded to the earth with attention. I am to have drives, books, magazines, and even game and cough lozenges! What a funny world it is! A week ago—what am I saying? two days ago—these people stared over our heads, and looked at us as if we might give them smallpox; and behold all this change—this sudden thaw, all because I happen to know Lady Hildegarde. What did you think of them, dear—you know, you have a very critical mind?”
“Well, since you ask me, I think that there seems to be a sliding-scale of merit. Mrs. Benny looks down on Miss Skuce; Lady Bloss sniffs at the Bennys; Mrs. Cholmondeley despises Lady Bloss; and no doubt, some one else turns up her nose at her.”
“Lady Bloss’s dignity was something overpowering. She entirely shrank from India and Indian topics, and yet she is a regular old Burra mem Sahib, now I come to think of it. How I wish I had known!—I might have talked to her in Hindostani. I dare say she would have had a fit!”
“I think it is most likely either that, or she would have called the police.”
“Well, I must ask about a dressmaker immediately, and get your dresses ready,” continued Emma, “for I can see that you are going to be overwhelmed with invitations. Lady Hildegarde will, of course, chaperon you everywhere; and I should like you to do her _credit_!”
Emma’s prophecy came true for once—in fact, as far as I know, it was the solitary occasion on which her vivid daydreams were realized. We were overwhelmed with civilities and invitations (chiefly to tea). Every day brought flowers and books, and it was quite a common occurrence to see a carriage and pair waiting at our modest entrance. Mrs. Cholmondeley proved to be as good as her word, and took us for several drives. We were shown “The Abbey,” as people called it—a low-lying, venerable, gray structure, with fine old trees and wonderful cloisters. We went to tea at the rectory, to lunch with Lady Bloss, and to quite a smart musical evening party at the Dovecote. The curate called, also Dr. Skuce, and—oh! great event!—Sir Warren Hastings Bloss! He came to “talk over India.” He announced his errand quite frankly to Emma, and he actually remained an hour and a half. Never had Mrs. Gabb ushered so many gentry up and down her narrow stairs—no, not in the twenty years she had let lodgings; and her manner was now as unpleasantly obsequious as it had formerly been otherwise.
