Part 4 (2/2)

”I'm afraid I like furnis.h.i.+ng,” said Delia, not without a shade of defiance.

”And I object--because I know you do. After all--you understand as well as I do that _every day_ now is important. There are not so many of us, Delia! If you're going to do real work, you can't afford to spend your time or thoughts on doing up a shabby house.”

There was silence a moment. Then Delia said abruptly--”I wonder when that man will turn up? What a fool he is to take it on!”

”The guardians.h.i.+p? Yes, he hardly knows what he's in for.” A touch of grim amus.e.m.e.nt shewed itself for a moment in Miss Marvell's quiet face.

”Oh, I daresay he knows. Perhaps he relies on what everyone calls his 'influence.' Nasty, sloppy word--nasty sloppy thing! Whenever I'm 'influenced,' I'm degraded!” The young shoulders straightened themselves fiercely.

”I don't know. It has its uses,” said the other tranquilly.

Delia laughed radiantly.

”O well--if one can make the kind of weapon of it you do. I don't mean of course that one shouldn't be rationally persuaded. But that's a different thing. 'Influence' makes me think of canting clergymen, and stout pompous women, who don't know what they're talking about, and can't argue--who think they've settled everything by a stale quotation--or an appeal to 'your better self'--or St. Paul. If Mr.

Winnington tries it on with 'influence'--we'll have some fun.”

Delia returned to her window. The look her companion bent upon her was not visible to her. It was curiously detached--perhaps slightly ironical.

”I'm wondering what part I shall play in the first interview!” said Miss Marvell, after a pause. ”I represent the first stone in Mr.

Winnington's path. He will of course do his best to put me out of it.”

”How can he?” cried Delia ardently. ”What can he do? He can't send for the police and turn you out of the house. At least I suppose he could, but he certainly won't. The last thing a gentleman of his sort wants is to make a scandal. Every one says, after all, that he is a nice fellow!”--the tone was unconsciously patronising--”It isn't his fault if he's been placed in this false position. But the great question for me is--how are we going to manage him for the best?”

She leant forward, her chin on her hands, her sparkling eyes fixed on her friend's face.

”The awkward thing is”--mused Miss Marvell--”that there is so little _time_ in which to manage him. If the movement were going on at its old slow pace, one might lie low, try diplomacy, avoid alarming him, and so forth. But we've no time for that. It is a case of blow on blow--action on action--and the publicity is half the battle.”

”Still, a little management there must be, to begin with!--because I--we--want money, and he holds the purse-strings. Hullo, here's the station!”

She jumped up and looked eagerly out of the window.

”They've sent a fly for us. And there's the station-master on the lookout. How it all comes back to me!”

Her flushed cheek showed a natural excitement. She was coming back as its mistress to a house where she had been happy as a child, which she had not seen for years. Thoughts of her father, as he had been in the old days before any trouble had arisen between them, came rus.h.i.+ng through her mind--tender, regretful thoughts--as the train came slowly to a standstill.

But the entire indifference or pa.s.sivity of her companion restrained her from any further expression. The train stopped, and she descended to the platform of a small country station, alive apparently with traffic and pa.s.sengers.

”Miss Blanchflower?” said a smiling station-master, whose countenance seemed to be trying to preserve the due mean between welcome to the living and condolence for the dead, as, hat in hand, he approached the newcomers, and guided by her deep mourning addressed himself to Delia.

”Why, Mr. Stebbing, I remember you quite well,” said Delia, holding out her hand. ”There's my maid--and I hope there's a cart for the luggage.

We've got a lot.”

A fair-haired man in spectacles, who had also just left the train, turned abruptly and looked hard at the group as he pa.s.sed them. He hesitated a moment, then pa.s.sed on, with a curious swinging gait, a long and shabby over-coat floating behind him--to speak to the porter who was collecting tickets at the gate opening on the road beyond.

<script>