eyes; she put the cage down, shaded her eyes and stared full at Phyl.

“God bless me!” said Miss Pinckney.

“This is Phyl,” said he, as they came up to the verandah steps.

Miss Pinckney, seeming not to hear him in the least, took the girl by both hands, and holding her so as if for inspection stared at her.

Then she turned on Pinckney with a snap.

“Why didn’t you tell me—she’s—why, she’s a Mascarene. Well, of all the astonishing things in the world— Child—child, where did you get that face?”

Before Phyl could answer this recondite question, she found herself enveloped in frills and a vague perfume of stephanotis. Maria Pinckney had taken her literally to her heart, and was kissing her as people kiss small children, kissing her and half crying at the same time, whilst Pinckney stood by wondering.

He thought that he knew everything about Maria Pinckney, just as he had fancied he knew himself till Phyl had shewn him, over there in Ireland, that there were a lot of things in his mind and character 91 still to be known by himself. This, as regards him, seemed the special mission of Phyl in the world.

91

“It’s the likeness,” said Miss Pinckney. “I thought it was Juliet Mascarene there before me in the sun, Juliet dead those years and years.” Then commanding herself, and with one of those reverses, sudden changes of manner and subject peculiar to herself:

“Where’s your luggage?”

“Abraham is bringing it along.”

“Abraham! Do you mean you didn’t drive, walked here from the station?”

“Yes,” said Pinckney shamefacedly, almost, and wondering what sin against the covenances he had committed now.

“And she after that journey from N’York. Richard Pinckney, you are a—man—I was going to have called you a fool—but it’s the same thing. Here, come on both of you—the child must be starving. This is the breakfast room, Phyl—Phyl! I will never get used to that name; no matter, I’m getting an old woman, and mustn’t grumble—mustn’t grumble—umph!”

She took Pinckney’s 

 Prev. P 52/185 next