The stout and highly-coloured Mrs. Batty was an early caller. She arrived, rather wheezy, compressed by her tailor into an expensive gown, a basket of spring flowers on her head. She and Henrietta took to each other, as Mrs. Batty said, at once. Here was a motherly person, and Henrietta knew that if she could have Mrs. Batty to herself she would be able to talk more freely than she had done since her arrival in Radstowe. There would be no criticism from her, but unlimited good nature, a readiness to listen and to confide and a love for the details of operations and illnesses in which she had a kinship with Mrs. Banks. Indeed, though Mrs. Batty was fat where Mrs. Banks was thin, cheerful where she was gloomy, and in possession of a flourishing husband where Mrs. Banks irritably mourned the loss of a suicide, they had characteristics in common and the chief of these was the way in which they took to Henrietta. “You must come to tea on Sunday,” Mrs. Batty said. “We are always at home on Sunday afternoons after four o’clock. I have two big boys,” she sighed, “and all their friends are welcome then.” She lowered her voice. “We don’t allow tennis—the neighbours, you know, and James has clients looking out of every window—but there’s no harm, as the boys say, in knocking the billiard balls about. I must say the click carries a good way, so I tell the parlourmaid to shut the windows. And music—my boy Charles,” she sighed again, “is mad on music. I like a tune myself, but he never plays any. You’ll hear for yourself if you come on Sunday. Now you will come, won’t you, Miss Henrietta?” “Yes, she’ll come,” Caroline said. “Do her good to meet young people. We’re getting old in this house, Mrs. Batty,” and she guffawed in anticipation of the usual denial, but for once Mrs. Batty failed. Her thoughts were at home, at Prospect House, that commodious family mansion situate in its own grounds, and in one of the most favourable positions in Upper Radstowe. So the advertisement had read before Mr. Batty bought the property, and it was all true. “John,” Mrs. Batty went on, “is more for sport, though he’s in the sugar business, with an uncle. Not my brother—Mr. Batty’s.” She was anxious to give her husband all the credit. “They are both good boys,” she added, “but Charles—well, you’ll see on Sunday. You promise to come.” Henrietta promised, and with Mrs. Batty’s departure Caroline spoke her mind. She was convinced that the lawyer and his wife were determined to secure Henrietta as a daughter-in-law. “He knows all our affairs, my dear, and James Batty never misses a chance of improving his position. Good as it is, it would be all the better for an alliance with our family, but I shall disown you at once if you marry one of those hobbledehoys. The Batty’s, indeed! Why, Mrs. Batty herself—” “Caroline, don’t!” Sophia pleaded. “And I’m sure the young men are very nice young men, and if Henrietta should fall in love—”