She was full of anticipation also that by means of the
Red House and the Baroness’s influence, she would soon hear of, or see,
Captain Pullen again--full of hope that Madame Gobelli would write
to the young man and force him to fulfil the promises he had made to
her. She did not want to know Prince Adalbert or Prince Loris--at the
present moment, it was Ralph and Ralph only, and none other would fill
the void she felt at losing him. She was sure there must be some great
mistake at the bottom of his strange silence, and that they had but to
meet, to see it rectified. She was only too glad then, when the day for
their departure from Heyst arrived. Most of the English party had left
the Lion d’Or by that time. The death of Mrs. Pullen’s child seemed
to have frightened them away. Some became nervous lest little Ethel
had inhaled poisonous vapours from the drainage--others thought that
the atmosphere was unhealthy, or that it was getting too late in the
year for the seaside, and so the visitors dwindled, until the Baroness
Gobelli found they were left alone with foreigners, and elected to
return to England in consequence. Harriet had wished to write to Captain Pullen and ask for an
explanation of his conduct, but the Baroness conjured her not to do so,
even threatened to withdraw her friendship, if the girl went against
her advice. The probabilities were, she said, that the young man was
staying with his sister-in-law wherever she might be, and that the
letter would be forwarded to him from the Camp, and fall into the hands
of Mrs. Pullen, or Miss Leyton. She assured Harriet that it would be
safer to wait until she had ascertained his address, and was sure that
any communication would reach him at first hand. “A man’s never the worse for being let alone, ’Arriet,” she said. “Don’t let ’im think ’e’s of too much consequence and ’e’ll value you
all the more! Our fellows don’t care for the bird that walks up to the
gun. A little ’olesome indifference will do my gentleman all the good
in the world!”

“O! but how _can_ I be indifferent, when I am burning to see him
again, and to hear why he never wrote to say that he could not come
to Brussels,” exclaimed Harriet, excitedly. “Do you think it was all
falsehoods, Madame Gobelli? Do you think that he does not want to see
me any more?”

Her eyes were flashing like diamonds--her cheeks and hands were burning
hot. The Baroness chuckled over her ardour and anxiety. “He! he! he! you little fool, no, I don’t! Anyone could see with ’alf
an eye, that he took a fancy for you! You’re the sort of stuff to stir
up a man and make ’im forget everything but yourself. Now don’t you
worry. ’E’ll be at the Red ’Ouse like a shot, as soon as ’e ’ears we’re
back in London. Mark my words! it won’t be long before we ’ave the ’ole
lot of ’em down on us, like bees ’umming round a flower pot.”

After this flattering tale, it was disheartening to arrive in town on
a chilly September day, under a pouring rain, and to see the desolate
appearance presented by the Red House. It was seven in the evening before they reached Holloway, and drove up
the dark carriage drive, clumped by laurels, to the hall door. After the grand description given by Bobby of his Mamma’s barouche
lined with olive green satin, Harriet was rather astonished that they
should have to charter cabs from the Victoria Station to Holloway,
instead of being met by the Baroness’s private carriage. But she
discovered afterwards that though there was a barouche standing in
the coach-house, which had been purchased in a moment of reckless
extravagance by Madame Gobelli, there were no horses to draw it, and
the only vehicle kept by the Baroness was a very much patched, not to
say disreputable looking Victoria, with a spavined cob attached to it,
in which William drove the mistress when she visited the boot premises. The chain having been taken down, the hall door was opened to them
by a slight, timid looking person, whom Harriet mistook for an upper
housemaid. “Well, Miss Wynward,” exclaimed the Baroness, as she stumped into the
hall, “’ere we are, you see!”

“Yes! my lady,” said the person she addressed, “but I thought, from not
hearing again, that you would travel by the night boat! Your rooms are
ready,” she hastened to add, “only--dinner, you see! I had no orders
about it!”

“That doesn’t signify,” interrupted the Baroness, “send out for a steak
and give us some supper instead! ’Ere William, where are you? Take my
bag and Miss Brandt’s up to our rooms, and, Gustave, you can carry the
wraps! Where’s that devil Bobby? Come ’ere at once and make yourself
useful! What are you standing there, staring at ’Arriet for? Don’t you
see Miss Wynward? Go and say ‘’ow d’ye do’ to ’er?”

Bobby started, and crossing to where Miss Wynward stood, held out his
hand. She shook it warmly. “How are you, Bobby?” she said. “You don’t look much stronger for your
trip. I expected to see you come back with a colour!”

“Nonsense!” commenced the Baroness testily, “what rubbish you old maids
do talk! What should you know about boys? ’Ow many ’ave _you_ got? ’Ere, why don’t you kiss ’im? You’ve smacked ’im often enough, _I_
know!”

Miss Wynward tried to pass the coarse rejoinder off as a joke, but it
was with a very plaintive smile that she replied,

“I think Bobby is growing rather too tall to be kissed, and he thinks
so too, don’t you, Bobby?”

Bobby was about to make some silly reply, when his Mamma interrupted
him,

“Oh! does he? ’E’ll be wanting to kiss the gals soon, so ’e may as
well practise on you first! Come! Bobby, do you ’ear what I say? Kiss
’er!”

But Miss Wynward drew up her spare figure with dignity. “No! my lady!” she said quietly, “I do not wish it!”

“He! he! he!” giggled the Baroness, as she commenced to mount the
stairs, “’e ain’t old enough for you, that’s what’s the matter! Come
along, ’Arriet, my dear! I’m dog-tired and I daresay you’re much the
same! Let us ’ave some ’ot water to our rooms, Miss Wynward!”

Harriet Brandt was now ushered by her hostess into a bedroom on the
same floor as her own, and left to unpack her bundles and boxes as
she best might. It was not a badly furnished room, but there was too
much pomp and too little comfort in it. The mantelshelf was ornamented
with some rare old Chelsea figures, and a Venetian glass hung above
them, but the carpet was threadbare, and the dressing-table was
inconveniently small and of painted deal. But as though to atone for
these discrepancies, the hangings to the bed were of satin, and the
blind that shaded the window was edged with Neapolitan lace. Harriet
had not been used to luxuries in the Convent, but her rooms in the Lion
d’Or had been amply provided with all she could need, and she was a
creature of sensual and indolent temperament, who felt any rebuff, in
the way of her comfort, terribly.