Mrs. Norton and her niece had received the tidings of the Hunstanton’s approaching departure with consternation almost more profound, and certainly more simple in its exhibition, than had been exhibited by any of the other members of the party. Surprise, which at the first moment took the form of angry petulance and offence, had been the manner in which it showed itself in Sophy; and as her aunt lived only in her and her wishes, the girl’s angry vexation resolved itself into a mixture of offence and resignation in Mrs. Norton. She calmed her child and soothed her, and then repeated Sophy’s sentiments in a more solid form. “My darling, you must not blame Diana. Diana has been goodness itself. We never could have had this pleasure at all but for her thoughtfulness,” she said, and then added: “I think, however, that Diana might have managed to let us know delicately what she meant--not forcing it upon us through the Hunstantons, if that is what she wants us to know.” Sophy did not think whether Diana had or had not taken this underhand way of warning them that it was time to depart; but she was angry beyond measure and beyond reason. They both cried over the thought, shedding hot tears. “Just when we know everybody and are really enjoying ourselves!” said Sophy. “Oh! how are we ever, ever, to put up with that nasty, windy Red House among the trees, with no society, after all that we have had here?” “Oh hush, my darling!” said Mrs. Norton; “this is what it is to be poor, and to have to do as other people like. Those who are rich can please themselves--it is only the poor who are shuffled about as other people like; but we must remember that we should never have come at all if it had not been for Diana.” “Would it have been worse not to come at all than to be sent away now?” said angry Sophy, at that height of irritated scepticism which would rather not be, than submit to anything less than perfect satisfaction in being. Could any one say they were ungrateful? Did not the ascription of praise to Diana preface everything they said, or at least everything that the most reasonable of them said? For as for Sophy, what was she more than a child? and a child, when it is crossed, allows no wisdom or kindness even in God Himself, who ought to know better than to expose it to suffering. They made up their little plans together on the very morning after that momentous night. They would go to Diana, and find out what her intentions were--whether she meant them to go, whether they were to accompany her wherever she might be going, or go back with the Hunstantons. “She must at least see that it is reasonable we should know,” Mrs. Norton said, with a dignified and restrained sense of injury--as one above making an open complaint, whatever reason she might have. When it came to the moment of going downstairs, Sophy indeed began to hesitate. She was afraid of Diana.