Rosalind was also in waterproof, but her hat was extremely pretty and becoming, and Priscilla fancied she got a glimpse of a gay silk dress under the waterproof cloak. “Oh, how quite too sweet of you to be ready!” said Rosalind with effusion. She took Prissie’s hand and squeezed it affectionately, and the two girls set off. The walk was a dreary one, for Kingsdene, one of the most beautiful places in England in fine weather, lies so low that in the winter months fogs are frequent, and the rain is almost incessant, so that then the atmosphere is always damp and chilly. By the time the two girls had got into the High Street Prissie’s thick, sensible boots were covered with mud and Rosalind’s thin ones felt very damp to her feet. They soon reached the quarter where the dressmaker, Miss Forbes, lived. Prissie was asked to wait downstairs, and Rosalind ran up several flights of stairs to fulfil her mission. She came back at the end of a few minutes, looking bright and radiant. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Peel,” she said, “but my boots were so muddy that Miss Forbes insisted on polishing them up for me.” “Well, we can go home now, I suppose?” said Prissie. “Ye— es; only as we _are_ here, would you greatly mind our going round by Bouverie Street? I want to inquire for a friend of mine, Mrs. Elliot-Smith. She has not been well.” “Oh, I don’t mind,” said Priscilla. “Will it take us much out of our way?” “No, only a step or two. Come, we have just to turn this corner, and here we are. What a dear— quite too good-natured girl you are, Miss Peel!” Prissie said nothing. The two started forth again in the drizzling mist and fog, and presently found themselves in one of the most fashionable streets of Kingsdene and standing before a ponderous hall-door, which stood back in a portico. Rosalind rang the bell, which made a loud peal. The door was opened almost immediately; but, instead of a servant appearing in answer to the summons, a showily dressed girl, with a tousled head of flaxen hair, light blue eyes and a pale face, stood before Rosalind and Prissie. “Oh, you dear Rose!” she said, clasping her arms round Miss Merton and dragging her into the house; “I had almost given you up. Do come in— do come in, both of you. You are more than welcome. What a miserable, horrid, too utterly depressing afternoon it is!” “How do you do, Meta?” said Rosalind, when she could interrupt this eager flow of words. “May I introduce my friend, Miss Peel? Miss Peel, this is my very great and special friend and chum, Meta Elliot-Smith.” “Oh, you charming darling!” said Meta, giving Rose a fresh hug and glancing in a supercilious but friendly way at Prissie. “We came to inquire for your mother, dear Meta,” said Rose in a demure tone. “Is she any better?” “Yes, my dear darling, she’s much better.” Meta’s eyes flashed interrogation into Rose’s: Rose’s returned back glances which spoke whole volumes of meaning.