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Verity is a good little creature, and her Bohemianism will not hurt Anna for one afternoon." Mrs. Herrick's firm lips were pressed together rather closely as Malcolm spoke, and her manner became still graver. "Will you forgive my speaking plainly, Malcolm?" she said quietly, "but I do think it such a grievous mistake for you to call Mrs. Keston by her Christian name.
The very sound of his voice was music in her ears, and this unconscious flattery was very soothing to his masculine intellect. Malcolm, who had masterful ways of his own, was bent on convincing Anna that she was wrong in her estimate of Verity Keston, and he was very willing at this moment to tell her all he knew of her.
"You would not be happy away from town, Herrick," persisted Cedric; "that's such a jolly crib of yours at Cheyne Walk;" for he had been greatly struck by the Keston menage, and had quite fallen in love with his quaint little hostess; while Verity, on her side, had taken very kindly to the handsome lad, and made much of him for Malcolm's sake. "Oh, I am comfortable enough," returned Malcolm.
His mother sat waiting for him rather anxiously. He had to walk from Keston, so was not home until about twenty past nine. And he left the house before seven in the morning. Mrs. Morel was rather anxious about his health. But she herself had had to put up with so much that she expected her children to take the same odds. They must go through with what came.
The milkman was generally late, and Hepsy, otherwise Hephzibah, was for ever on his track with a yellow jug in her hand; they called it the "Hunting of the Snark," for they were wont to treat the minor accidents of life in a playful fashion. "Anna, this is Mrs. Keston," observed Malcolm "my friend Verity, and Babs."
"Plain living and high thinking suit me down to the ground," he would say "a laugh helps digestion;" but in spite of his philosophic theories, many secret dainties found their way into the Keston larder, and were regarded doubtfully and with awe by an anxious young housekeeper.
As the studio door closed behind them, Anna said regretfully, "I wish we could have stayed longer, Malcolm, I wanted to see more of that nice Mr. Keston; and I did so long to peep at his picture." "Did you?" observed Malcolm in a surprised tone, but he was evidently gratified at this expression of interest.
Malcolm was hard at work in his chambers long before the sisters returned to the Wood House. His book had proved a great success, and the leading papers had reviewed it most favourably. He had now commenced fresh work, and spent all his leisure hours at his desk. When Amias Keston complained that the studio evenings were things of the past, Malcolm looked at him a little sadly.
Yet it was true, what he had said. He hated her. When they were going away, Mrs. Morel accompanied them as far as Nottingham. It was a long way to Keston station. "You know, mother," he said to her, "Gyp's shallow. Nothing goes deep with her." "William, I WISH you wouldn't say these things," said Mrs. Morel, very uncomfortable for the girl who walked beside her. "But it doesn't, mother.
She had lovers by the score, and flouted them all except my great-grandfather, whom I have reason to believe wished himself dead before he had been married a week. She was the mother of fifteen, and lived to a good old age, and was a pride and terror to the neighbourhood, and the mantle of her self-will has fallen upon Barbara Maud Keston.
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