She left Ethel in the dining-room with the inventory, and went up to receive the visitor. Mrs. North was as pretty as Aunt Anne had declared her to be; a mere girl to look at, tall and slim. Florence thought it was quite natural that her husband should like her to have a chaperon. “I came to see Mrs. Baines,” she said, coming forward in a shy, hesitating manner, “but hearing that she was in the country I ventured to ask for you. What have you done with the dear old lady?” and she laughed nervously. Florence looked at her, fascinated by her beauty; by her clothes, that seemed to be a mixture of fur and lace and perfume, by the soft brown hair that curled low on her forehead, by the sweet blue eyes—by every bit of her. “She told you, probably, that she was very angry when she left me; I know it has all been very dreadful in her eyes; but she was always kind to me, and I thought by this time that she would, perhaps, forgive me and make it up; so I came.” She said it with a penitent air. “I am afraid she is very angry,” Florence answered, laughing, for the pretty woman before her did not seem like a stranger. “Do you want her again?” “Oh no!” and Mrs. North shook her head emphatically. “She would not come, I know; besides, it would be impossible: she led us a terrible life. But we loved her, and wanted just to make it up with her again. I think we could have put up with anything if she had not quarrelled with the servants.” “I was afraid it was that,” Florence answered. “Oh yes!” sighed Mrs. North; “she was horribly autocratic with them—‘autocratic’ is her own word. At last she quarrelled with Hetty, and wanted me to send her away—to send away Hetty, who is a born treasure, and cooks like an angel. It would have broken our hearts—a woman who sends up a dinner like a charm; we couldn’t let her go, it was impossible, and the old lady fled.” “I am very sorry. You were so kind to her; she always said that.” “I loved her,” Mrs. North answered, with a little sigh. “She was so like my dear dead mother grown old—that was the secret of her attraction for us; but she ruled us with a rod of iron that grew more and more unyielding every day. And yet she was very kind. She was always giving us presents.” “Oh yes,” Florence said, in a despairing voice. “We have had the bills for them since,” Mrs. North went on, with a comical air. “She used to say that I was very frivolous,” she added suddenly. “She thought it wicked of me to enjoy life while my husband was away. But he is old, Mrs. Hibbert; one may have an affection for an old husband, but one can’t be in love with him.” “If she were very nice she would not have made that remark to me, whom she never saw before,” Florence thought, beginning to dislike her a little.