me."Very good of your dear mother to let you come. Now, is it your placeor mine, Evey, to introduce all these brothers of yours to Miss Percy,or shall we let things settle themselves? You _will_ learn them all intime, Connie, though it may seem at first as if you never would."
In Evey's place I should probably have been rather offended at this,but, on the contrary, both she and her brothers seemed to think the oldlady's joke very amusing.
"I'll introduce them by telling Connie all their names and ages, thankyou, Lady Honor," she answered brightly. "Come on, Connie; it will takesome time, I warn you." We ran on a little way together, Lady Honorlooking quite pleased. It was easy to see that she really wanted Eveyand me to be friends, and I felt gratified at this.
"It will be nice for Evey sometimes to get out of all that crowd ofboys," I thought to myself. "I daresay Lady Honor thinks being with memay make her quiet and refined," though, truth to tell, for all hersimplicity, I had seen no touch of anything the least rough or hoydenishin my new friend.
"Lady Honor is always so funny, isn't she?" was Evey's first remark, assoon as we were out of hearing. "Papa says it's delightful to see anold person so fresh and merry. But she has such a kind heart: thatkeeps people young more than anything," she added, in her wise way.
"Yes," I agreed, "she is very kind; but sometimes she's rather"--"rathersharp," I was going to say, but something in Evey's eyes made mehesitate--"I mean I sometimes am a very little frightened of her."
"You needn't be," said Evey, composedly. "If you had ever stayed in thehouse with her for weeks together as we do at my uncle's at Christmas,you would see that she's just _quite_ good."
I could not say anything more after that, and Evey evidently wanted tochange the subject.
"Shall I tell you _us_, now?" she began again, laughingly. "That bigLancey is the eldest of us--he's sixteen, and, of course, his name'sLancelot. Then comes Joss--he's Jocelyn--those two names and mine arevery--what's the word--not `fanciful,' but something like that."
"Fantastic," I suggested.
"Yes, that's it. How clever of you to know!" she said, admiringly. "Atleast they sound so, though really the boys' names are both familyones."
"But yours," I interrupted, "isn't a very fanciful one--`Eva' or`Evelyn'--oh, no; you said it wasn't one of these. I forgot."
"It's Yvonne," said Evey. "It's a French name--a very old French name.A cousin of mother's was called Yvonne first, and I'm named after her.Then, after these three names, we get quite sensible. Next to me isMary, `plain Mary' we call her in fun, because she's the prettiest ofus! And then come Addie and Charley and Douglas and Tot. Addie's thedelicate one, and Charley and the two little ones you've seen."
"What a lot of boys!" I said, my breath nearly taken away.
"Yes," said Evey, laughing; "and fancy, now they'll all be living athome. Won't it be nice? Till now, you know, Lancey and Joss have beenat school away, but now they'll all be at home; at least till Lanceygoes to India," and for the first time Evey sighed a little at thisdoleful prospect.
"Dear me," I thought to myself, "surely they'll be glad to get rid of afew of them. I should think their mother would, any way."
But, as if she answered my thought, Evey went on: "Mother can't bear tothink of Lancey going; nor Joss either, and I suppose he'll have to go,too. We have an uncle there who is a tea-planter; they're going to him.Joss would give anything not to--he wants to go to college, but ofcourse it's _impossible_, so we never speak about it."
"And doesn't Lancey mind?" I said.
"Not so much, except just for leaving us. But it's no good thinking ofthings long before they come. We've settled that we're going to be ashappy as anything at the Yew Trees for two years at least. Oh, how niceit is, and _how_ kind your father has been about putting it in order.We've never had a house at all like it before; our house at Southsea wasso--just like other houses you know."
I felt more on my own ground, now.
"I am so pleased you like the Yew Trees," I said, amiably. "It is anice old house, and it _might_ be made quite perfect. If we ever wentto live in it ourselves, I daresay we should change it a good deal--butI don't think we ever shall. When papa retires, and I hope he willbefore I'm grown up, mamma and I want to travel a good deal, and perhapsto live in London. One gets tired of a little country-place."
Yvonne looked at me quite simply.
"Do you think so?" she said. "I feel as if we should never get tired ofElmwood. And the people all seem so kind. London seems so very big,but then, of course, I haven't been _very_ much there."
My conscience pricked me.
"Well, I haven't, either," I said; "but still--" I had really only beenthere once, and for one week!
"We always stay with mother's godmother for a month every summer inLondon, Mary and I, and mother comes for the last fortnight. Mother'sgodmother is very kind, and we have very good music lessons--she givesus them--she is Lady Honor's sister. But we _are_ always so glad tocome home again."
I could not understand her, but I thought it wiser to say no more aboutLondon and its attractions. Nor was I sorry when Evey suddenly changedthe conversation by exclaiming:
"Oh, Connie, I have _so_ wanted to thank you about the rose paper. LadyHonor told us. You can't think how lovely it looks--you must come andsee. Father says I may have pink ribbons to tie up the curtains, and_perhaps_ pink on the dressing-table--we shall fix when mother comes. Ithink we could trim the table ourselves. Perhaps you could help us,Connie? Are you clever at things like that?"
"I don't know," I said. "I don't think I ever tried. The servantsalways do up the dressing-tables, I suppose."
"Oh, yes, of course, you have more servants, and they haven't so much todo as ours. But you know, Connie, we're really very poor indeed, so we_have_ to do things ourselves, especially if we want any extra things--pretty things. I daresay you can't understand how careful we have tobe. But we're very happy all the same."
"I suppose people get accustomed to things," I said. "I don't think Ishould like to be poor at all. You see I've always had everything Iwanted. But I should like very much to help you if ever I could."
I meant to be gracious, I am afraid I was only patronising. Vaguethoughts of presents to Evey and the others out of my lavishpocket-money were in my mind; fortunately, I did not express them, andEvey, in the dignity of her simplicity, took my offer of "help" quitedifferently.
"I think very likely you could give me some ideas about thedressing-table," she said consideringly. "I'm sure you have goodtaste--because of that lovely paper."
And just then we found ourselves at Mr Bickersteth's gate.
CHAPTER SIX.
NEW IDEAS.
That luncheon and afternoon, or part of an afternoon, at Lady Honor'swere very nice, and yet rather strange to me. I had so seldom beenamong several young people that I scarcely felt at home; and the Whytesin themselves were unlike any children I had ever known. They were notthe least shy, far less so, really, than I was. I remember getting veryhot and red when I knocked over a glass of water, and Evey, who wassitting next me, made me feel still worse by her open and outspokenfears that I would spoil my frock. She thought it was that that I wasso distressed about.
"I don't care a bit about my frock," I said to her quite crossly. "Ifit is spoilt, I can get another. It is only that I hate to look soawkward."
"Everybody does awkward things sometimes. If you don't mind about yourfrock, I don't see that a little spilt water matters much," said Evey,looking at me in her straightforward way. "Lady Honor isn't vexed, areyou, Lady Honor?" she said loud out, turning to the old lady.
"Of course not, there's no harm done. Don't look at me as if I were RedRiding Hood's grandmother, my dear child," she said in her funny way,meaning to be kind to me, of course; and Evey meant to be kind too, butI suppose it was that I didn't know Lady Honor as well as they did; andstill more, I daresay, it was from my habit of thinking about myself somuch, and fancying oth
er people were noticing me, when very likely theyweren't, that I felt so horrid.
I forgot about it, however, after luncheon, when we all went out intothe garden. Yvonne was so kind. She felt a little, I think, as if Iwere her visitor, and she just did everything she possibly could to makeme enjoy myself; and the boys were all very nice, too. I could
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