Part 15 (2/2)

The door opens, and Sarah's voice announces:

”Mr. and Mrs. Grebby!”

[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Mr. and Mrs. Grebby!”]

Eleanor starts to her feet, and rashes forward.

”Father! Mother!”

There they stand. Mrs. Grebby in a black satin grown, a long gold chain suspended round her neck, a Paisley shawl crossed over her chest, and a close bonnet of quilted blue satin.

Mr. Grebby, with a spa.r.s.e frill of grey hair growing right round his face, his chin and long upper lip guiltless of hirsute appendages. A gorgeous suit of a very baggy cut, flowered satin waistcoat, and a basket of apples and cooking pears in his hand, as a present to his daughter.

At his heels a s.h.a.ggy dog, blind in one eye and toothless--one that in its puppyhood had leaped and played with Eleanor in the green fields of Copthorne Farm.

A cry of delight breaks from her, as she hugs her parents in turn, and catches sight of her old favourite.

”Rover--my darling!” she exclaims, sinking on her knees to fondle the dog.

He springs up with his muddy feet on the shoulders of her beautiful heliotrope dress. His claws catch in the lace, but she heeds them not, only laughs gleefully as he licks her face.

”We couldn't help bringing him,” says Mr. Grebby, wiping his brow with a red handkerchief, which is s.h.i.+ning and damp from excitement. ”Poor follow, he _did_ want to come! Black Bess will miss him, won't she?”

”We took it into our heads sudden like to visit London and surprise you, dearie,” Mrs. Grebby vouchsafes.

”How lovely of you!” cries Eleanor, in her joy forgetting the guests by the fire, then she turns and faces them.

Giddy feels as if cold water is coursing down her back, the palms of her hands are icy cold. The feathers in her friend's hat seem dancing up and down before her eyes.

Lady MacDonald is positively glaring through her tortoisesh.e.l.l gla.s.ses.

There is an air of offended dignity in her mien, as she looks the couple up and down freezingly.

”This is my father and mother,” says Eleanor, an elated smile upon her lips, a merry sparkle in her eyes. What do these people matter, now that her parents have come to her new home? She longs to show them everything, and watch their wonder.

”Mr. and Mrs. Grebby, Lady MacDonald, Mrs. Mounteagle,” she continues.

”Now, Ma dear, you sit here,” pulling up a chair between Giddy and Lady MacDonald. ”Loosen your shawl, or you'll scorch, and I will give you some tea.”

Mrs. Grebby gazes in awestruck wonder at the grandly dressed visitors, and her daughter's elaborate clothes.

Mr. Grebby stumps round the room, remarking on everything.

”Well, there! What do you say to _that_ for a picture,” addressing his wife. ”Tell Ma to come here, Eleanor, I want 'er to see this 'orse, and the lady on the moon in the next frame. I wish you could paint pictures, my girl; but maybe Mr. Roche will 'ave you taught.”

Giddy flushes scarlet. Lady MacDonald fans herself violently with the screen. Mrs. Grebby takes the tiny cup Eleanor hands her, and turns it round to examine it. Then her eyes fall on the slices of thin bread and b.u.t.ter, the dainty biscuits, and minute squares of b.u.t.tered toast.

”Don't you get 'ungry, dearie?” she asks. ”I thought you'd be sure to have a knife-and-fork tea, living in this style.”

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