"Oh, you can come round her if you try. Confide in her that you've been very self-willed, and wild, and rackety, but that you see the error of your ways, and would like to make a friend of her. I'll give you a helping hand when I can. I'll hint that Florence is rather down on you--that you're not a bad sort after all. You can take them all in if you like. Major Winchester will be quite hoodwinked--it will be delicious." Trixie's face cleared. "I must say you're not a bad ally, Mab, when you give your mind to it," she said. "But I wish I knew what it is you're planning." "Wait a bit," said Miss Forsyth. "It's first-rate--I can tell you that much." CHAPTER THREE. A FRIEND IN NEED. It is sometimes almost worse to arrive too soon than too late. In the latter case you have at least the certainty of being expected, and even if people are cross and irritated at having been kept waiting, still your place is there for you; there is no question about it. Above all, if the case be that of arriving on a first visit, I for one should prefer the risk of the disagreeables attending a tardy appearance to the far from improbable humiliations consequent upon turning up prematurely. Not to speak of the positive inconveniences of no carriage at the station, or no room for you in the one that may have come to fetch some other guest by the previous train to your orthodox one, there is the blank look on your hostess's face--"more for luncheon" it seems to say; and the extraordinarily uncomfortable announcement that your room is not _quite ready_--will be so directly, but "the So-and-so's only left this morning, and the house has been so full;" and a sense of outraged and scurrying housemaids when it is suggested that you should just "leave your wraps in the dressing-room till after luncheon." The visit must develop into something extraordinarily agreeable which succeeds in entirely living down the annoying contrariety of such a debut. It was unfortunate, most unfortunate, that the Wentworths' visit to Grey Fells Hall should have been inaugurated in this uncomfortable way. They were not expected at Cobbolds, the small station five miles off, but the nearest, nevertheless, till four in the afternoon, whereas it was barely twelve o'clock when they found themselves, their boxes and their bewildered attendant stranded on the platform in a drizzling rain and biting north-country wind, absolutely at a loss what to do and whither to betake themselves. How had they managed it? you may well ask, for the journey from London to Cloughshire is a matter of some six or seven hours even by express train, and the travellers had not started in the middle of the night. This was what had happened. In an evil moment some mischievous imp had suggested to Mrs Wentworth the expediency of "breaking the journey" seven-eighths of the way, or thereabouts, at a country town where a cousin of hers was the wife of the vicar.