But everybody had been kind. Kent, the coachman, had seemed to welcome her specially in the way he touched his cockaded hat, as she and Richard got into the carriage at Stockport Station. Stockport, Richard said, was a dirty old hole of a place, but she’d liked it as they rattled over the setts. Of course, it was different from the South; grey, smokier, barer than anything she’d seen in London—but she was determined to find some romance in it. And Mr Vernon had supplied that. “They always say,” he told her, “Stockport is like Rome—it’s built on seven hills.”

And then there was the long drive through muddy, twisting lanes, past straggling houses, across the high-arched bridge over a canal, grinding with the carriage-brake on down a steep little hill. Richard pointed out two or three neighbouring “places,” standing in fields, among trees. The unfamiliar names thrilled her. He was holding her hand.

Mr. Vernon was standing in the porch as they drove up. He was not quite so tall as Lily remembered him—at her aunt’s house in Kensington—but perhaps that was because the whole Vernon family were above the normal height. She kissed him, turning to the tall dark girl behind, who she knew, of course, must be Mary, and shook hands with her, conscious all the while of the hall beyond, with its flagstones, and the big porters’ chairs by the fireplace and the old portraits against the panelling. Yes, Mary had Richard’s eyes, they were beautiful, but she wasn’t so good-looking. Lily liked her, loved her, instantly. She was shy, rather awkward. She seemed so big, to Lily. Ought she to have kissed Mary? They smiled. Lily had just that impression of those lovely eyes in the plain, rather pale face.

Mrs. Beddoes, the housekeeper, was introduced. And Mrs. Beddoes half-curtsied as she said:

“Welcome to the Hall, miss.”

That was almost too exquisite for Lily. She nearly took Mrs. Beddoes in her arms. And actually she felt the tears in her eyes. They were all too kind. Mr. Vernon, tall, slow and stooping, with his fair moustache and mild wrinkled eyes, saying: “I expect you’d like to see your room?” And Mary, moving ahead of her shyly, at the top of the wonderful carved staircase which was sloping sideways with age, opening the door: “I hope this will be all right.”

“It’s perfectly beautiful.”

They paused, smiled enquiringly. Mary smiled quickly, oddly. She had a most attractive voice—rather husky and soft:

“I’m glad,” she said. That was all. They were interrupted by the gardener’s boy bringing up the luggage. Mrs. Beddoes came in to begin the unpacking. The whole house was in a bustle.

“We’ve been looking forwards to this for weeks, miss,” said Mrs. Beddoes, when she was alone with Lily. “So has Master and the Mistress—you wouldn’t believe.”