The Nonesuch

Mrs Underhill uttered a faint protest; but she found it impossible to deny that Tiffany, for all her caressing ways, had never yet shown the smallest consideration for anyone. She did not enquire into the methods Miss Trent meant to employ to keep that volatile damsel in good spirits; and Miss Trent volunteered no explanation. Her methods were certainly unorthodox, and must have earned the censure of any mother anxious to see her daughter grow into a modest female, with delicacy of character as well as prettiness of person. But Miss Trent had long since realized that her lovely charge was governed by self-interest. Perhaps, if she were to be deeply in love one day, her nature might undergo a change; meanwhile, the best that the most conscientious preceptress could do for her was to instill into her head the belief that elegant manners were as essential for social success as an enchanting face; to keep her from passing the line; and to prevent her setting everyone in the house by the ears whenever her will was crossed.

So when Tiffany came tempestuously into the schoolroom (as Ancilla had known she would), to pour out the tale of Mrs Mickleby’s infamous conduct, she listened to her with an air of blank amazement, and exclaimed: “But—! Good heavens, Tiffany, you don’t mean to tell me that you wish to go to that party? You cannot be serious!”

Tiffany’s bosom was heaving stormily, but an arrested, questioning look came into her eyes as she stared at Miss Trent. “What do you mean?”

Miss Trent arched her brows incredulously. “You at such an insipid squeeze? Oh, dear, how very improper in me to say that! Charlotte, don’t sit with your mouth at half-cock! You were not listening—and if you dare to repeat what I said I shall drag you through fields full of cows!”

Charlotte giggled, but Tiffany stamped her foot angrily. “It is a party for Sir Waldo and his cousin, and everybody will be there!”

“Exactly so! Now, don’t eat me! If you indeed wished for it I’m sorry—but I must own it is not at all the sort of party at which I should wish you to make an appearance. You would be the youngest lady present, and you may depend upon it that Mrs Mickleby, if she had asked you, would have taken care to have your place set as far from her distinguished guests as possible. I imagine you would have had Humphrey Colebatch to squire you, perfectly tongue-tied, poor boy! Another thing—which I know one ought not to consider, of course!—is that you couldn’t wear the dress that becomes you better than any of the others:—I mean the one with the knots of ribbon and the sash exactly the colour of your eyes.”

“Yes, I could!”

“Not in Mrs Mickleby’s drawing-room!” Ancilla said. “Only think of all those green curtains and chairs! The effect would be ruined!”

Tiffany was beginning to look thoughtful: but she said, with a slight pout: “Yes, but I don’t see why Mary Mickleby should be at the party, or Sophia Banningham, and not me! They aren’t out either—at least, they haven’t had a London season!”

“No, and I wouldn’t wager a groat on the chance that when they get up from dinner Mrs Mickleby won’t pack all the young people off to the morning-room, to play speculation, or some such thing. There is to be no dancing, you know: just a chattery evening, with a little whist for the gentlemen, I daresay.”

“Oh, no! How shabby! Do you think it will be like that indeed? How bored Sir Waldo and his cousin will be!”

“No doubt they will be. And how agreeably surprised when they come to your aunt’s party!”

“Yes, very true!” Tiffany said, brightening.

“Sir Waldo!” exclaimed Charlotte scornfully. “I think it’s the stupidest thing!—Everybody running wild over him, except Miss Trent and me! You don’t want to meet him, do you, ma’am?”

“No, not particularly, which is a fortunate circumstance, for I can’t suppose that he would think me any more interesting than I think him,” responded Ancilla cheerfully.

Chapter 4

Ironically enough, the two persons who least desired the introduction were the first of the Staples household to meet Sir Waldo. Charlotte and Miss Trent, driving into the village in the one-horse phaeton originally bestowed on Mrs Underhill by her husband in the mistaken belief that it would afford her amusement to tool herself about the neighbourhood, were bound for the Church, with a basket full of flowers. Leaving the phaeton in the stableyard of the Rectory, they carried the basket through the wicket-gate into the Churchyard, and were employed in arranging lilies and delphiniums in two vases set on the altar when they were startled by a man’s voice, saying: “But how charming!”

“Oh, how you made me jump!” exclaimed Charlotte involuntarily.

“Did I? I beg your pardon!”