There was an un-homelike feeling in the Red House and its furniture,
and a coldness in their reception, which made the passionate, excited
creature feel inclined to sit down and burst into tears. She was on
the very brink of doing so, when a tap sounded on the door, and Miss
Wynward entered with a zinc can of hot water, which she placed on the
washing-stand. Then she stood for a moment regarding the girl as though
she guessed what was in her mind, before she said,

“Miss Brandt, I believe! I am so sorry that the Baroness never wrote
me with any certainty regarding her arrival, or things would have been
more comfortable. I hope you had a good dinner on board!”

“No!” said Harriet, shaking her head, “I felt too ill to eat. But it
does not signify, thank you!”

“But you are looking quite upset! Supper cannot be ready for another
hour. I will go and make you a cup of tea!”

She hurried from the room again, and presently returned with a small
tray on which was set a Sèvres cup and saucer and Apostle teaspoon,
with an earthenware teapot that may possibly have cost sixpence. But
Harriet was too grateful for the tea to cavil whence it came, and
drinking it refreshed her more than anything else could have done. “Thank you, thank you so much,” she said to Miss Wynward, “I think the
long journey and the boat had been too much for me. I feel much better
now!”

“It is such a melancholy house to come to when one is out of sorts,”
observed her companion, “I have felt that myself! It will not give you
a good impression of your first visit to London. Her ladyship wrote me
you had just come from the West Indies,” she added, timidly. “Yes! I have not long arrived in Europe,” replied Harriet. “But I
thought--I fancied--the Baroness gave me the idea that the Red House
was particularly gay and cheerful, and that so many people visited her
here!”

“That is true! A great many people visit here! But--not such people,
perhaps, as a young lady would care for!”

“O! I care for every sort,” said Harriet, more gaily, “and you,--don’t
you care for company, Miss Wynward?”

“I have nothing to do with it, Miss Brandt, beyond seeing that the
proper preparations are made for receiving it. I am Bobby’s governess,
and housekeeper to the Baroness!”

“Bobby is getting rather tall for a governess!” laughed Harriet. “He is, poor boy, but his education is very deficient. He ought to have
been sent to school long ago, but her ladyship would not hear of it. But I never teach him now. He is supposed to be finished!”

“Why don’t you find another situation then?” demanded Harriet, who was
becoming interested in the ex-governess. She was a fragile, melancholy looking woman of perhaps five-and-thirty,
who had evidently been good-looking in her day and would have been so
then but for her attenuation, and shabby dress. But she was evidently a
gentlewoman, and far above the menial offices she appeared to fill in
the Red House. She gazed at Harriet for a minute in silence after she
had put the last question to her, and then answered slowly:

“There are reasons which render it unadvisable. But you, Miss Brandt,
have you known the Baroness before?”

“I never saw her till we met at Heyst and she invited me here,” replied
the girl. “O! why did you come? Why did you come?” exclaimed Miss Wynward, as she
left the room. Harriet stood gazing at the door as it closed behind her. _Why had
she come?_ What an extraordinary question to ask her! For the same
reason that other people accepted invitations to them by their
friends--because she expected to enjoy herself, and have the protection
of the Baroness on first entering English society! But why should this
governess--her dependant, almost her servant--put so strange a question
to her? Why had she come? She could not get it out of her mind. She was
roused from her train of speculation by hearing the Baroness thumping
on the outside panels of her door with her stick. “Come along,” she cried, “never mind dressing! The supper’s ready at
last and I’m as ’ungry as an ’unter.”

Hastily completing her toilet, Harriet joined her hostess, who
conducted her down to a large dining-room, wrapt in gloom. The two
dozen morocco chairs ranged against the wall, looked sepulchral by
the light of a single lamp, placed in the centre of a long mahogany
table, which was graced by a fried steak, a huge piece of cheese,
bread and butter, and lettuces from the garden. Harriet regarded the
preparations for supper with secret dismay. She was greedy by nature,
but it was the love of good feeding, rather than a superfluity of food,
that induced her to be so. However, when the Baron produced a couple
of bottles of the very best Champagne to add to the meal, she felt her
appetite somewhat revive, and played almost as good a knife and fork
as the Baroness. Bobby and Miss Wynward, who as it appeared, took her
meals with the family, were the only ones who did not do justice to the
supper. The lad looked worn-out and very pale, but when Miss Wynward suggested
that a glass of champagne might do him good, and dispel the exhaustion
under which he was evidently labouring, his mother vehemently opposed
the idea. “Champagne for a child like ’im,” she cried, “I never ’eard of such
a thing. Do you want to make ’im a drunkard, Miss Wynward? No! thank
you, there ’ave been no ’ard drinkers in _our_ family, and ’e shan’t
begin it! ’Is father was one of the soberest men alive! ’E never took
anything stronger than toast and water all the time I knew ’im.”

“Of course not, your ladyship,” stammered Miss Wynward, who seemed in
abject fear of her employer, “I only thought as Bobby seems so very
tired, that a little stimulant----”

“Then let ’im go to bed,” replied Madame Gobelli. “Bed is the proper
place for boys when they’re tired! Come, Sir, off to bed with you,
at once, and don’t let me ’ear anything more of you till to-morrow
morning!”

“But mayn’t I have some supper?” pleaded Bobby. “Not a bit of it!” reiterated the Baroness, “if you’re so done up that
you require champagne, your stomach can’t be in a fit state to digest
beef and bread! Be off at once, I say, or you’ll get a taste of my
stick.”

“But, my lady--” said Miss Wynward, entreatingly. “It’s not a bit of good, Miss Wynward, I know more about boys’ insides
than you do. Sleep’s the thing for Bobby. Now, no more nonsense, I
say--”

But Bobby, after one long look at Harriet Brandt, had already quitted
the room. This episode had the effect of destroying Miss Wynward’s
appetite. She sat gazing at her plate for a few minutes, and then with
some murmured excuse of its being late, she rose and disappeared. The
Baroness was some time over her meal, and Harriet had an opportunity
to examine the apartment they sat in, as well as the dim light allowed
her to do.