The house had a desolate look when the van had driven off with all the glass and china and long deal tables, the epergnes and artificial flowers. Bella’s room looked unutterably dismal. It was but a poor attic, at best, and now, in the untidiness of departure, strewed all over with crumpled scraps of paper, ends of old ribbon, cast-off cuffs and collars, and worn-out shoes, looked horrible. The younger sisters explored the chamber after all was over, in the faint hope of gleaning something valuable. ‘She hasn’t left a morsel of anything behind her,’ said Clementina. ‘I don’t think you can complain of that,’ said Flora. ‘She’s given us all her old clothes.’ ‘If she’d had a spark of generosity she’d have given us some of her new,’ answered Clementina. ‘This is to be my room now. It’s a horrid hole. I’m sure the furniture must have been second-hand when Noah built the ark. Think of Bella, with her apple-green bedroom and dressing-room at the Park--all the furniture new and her own choice--and her barouche and pair--and her brougham for evenings. Doesn’t it seem too ridiculous?’ Clementina went to the shabby little looking glass on the chipped mahogany chest of drawers, and submitted her small blunt features to a severe scrutiny. ‘I’m not particularly ugly, and I’ve Bella’s complexion, which is the best part of her,’ she said, ‘but I don’t suppose there’s a Mr. Piper growing for me anywhere.’ ‘Oh yes, there is,’ answered the cheerful Flora. ‘Bella will give lots of parties, and we shall meet with young manufacturers.’ ‘Bella will do nothing except for her own gratification,’ said Clementina. ‘She won’t give parties to please us.’ CHAPTER IV. KENRICK’S RETURN. IN the dull dark days of November Mr. and Mrs. Dulcimer took their ward to Southampton, there to await her lover’s return. They were to spend a week at Culverhouse with Sir Kenrick, and then he was to go with them when they went back to Little Yafford. Mrs. Dulcimer had planned it all. If Kenrick was ailing still--though that was not likely, Mrs. Dulcimer said, after the sea voyage--Rebecca could nurse him. There was no beef tea like Rebecca’s, no such calves’ foot jelly. They went to the Dolphin Hotel at Southampton, and Mr. Dulcimer at once descended upon the old book-shops in the High Street, like a vulture upon carrion--very much like a vulture, since he cared only for the dead. Mrs. Dulcimer took Beatrix for a gentle walk, which meant a contemplation of all the shop windows. Beatrix looked pale and out of spirits. ‘I know you are anxious about Kenrick,’ said Mrs. Dulcimer. Beatrix blushed. Her conscience smote her for not being anxious enough about her wounded lover. Had it been Cyril thus returning, what agonies of hope and fear would have rent her breast! But it was only Kenrick, the man she had promised, out of simple gratitude and esteem, to marry. Her feeling about him, as the hour of their meeting drew nigh, was an ever-increasing dread.