HE wild bit of Berkshire common was purple with heather, and lay under a blazing September noon, such as often results from a chilly, gray morning. The clatter of knives and forks and the popping of corks betokened a shooting-picnic. Mrs. Martin, very debonair in her smart linen suit, had driven over with her hostess and Nelly, and was sitting in the shade of a big boulder talking to one of the women who had been out with the guns, and were, without exception, hot, tired, and dressed in heavy tweeds. Some way from her was the hillock, where Nelly, in all the belated frilliness of a dark blue and purple muslin, full of crisp simplicity, with yet a touch of autumnal discretion about it, sat beneath a deep emerald green sunshade against a background of heather.
Suddenly Mrs. Martin looked up with a start. She had deposited her niece half an hour since with her ponderous host, and settled herself for a good gossip. It was decidedly startling to turn round on hearing a wild guffaw of laughter, and find her charge surrounded by seven men. On a tremendous peal of merriment, and at the obvious signs of an inclination shown by the two remaining mankind to join the group, Mrs. Martin, who knew that invitations come from the women of a family, firmly grasped her sunshade, and sallied across without more ado to join the merry party. She arrived in time to hear Nelly's voice giving a short lecture on the conditions of pheasant shooting. As Mrs. Martin was aware that this was Nelly's first appearance at a shoot, and equally aware that there could be no doubt of this left in her listeners' minds, after Nelly's extraordinary statements on the sport (the assumption that pheasants were shot sitting in the heather being the least egregious of her blunders), Mrs. Martin felt less triumph at the obvious amusement in the laughter than did her niece.
Nelly, indeed, was so elated, that she even bestowed a friendly smile on her chaperon, which was cruelly repaid by that lady's unshakable decision to return forthwith—and this in spite of the fact that the hostess had elected to stay with the guns, and joined in the plea that Nelly might stay, also, as she so ardently desired, a plea backed by the entire masculine force. Mrs. Martin's adamant resolution to write home-letters was matched by her equal resolution that Nelly should do the same, and, moreover, despatch them by the afternoon mail.
Nelly leaned back complacently when the carriage started on its homeward journey, and, with real sympathy, Mrs. Martin to interrupt her. She was honestly regretful that she must dispel the illusions which she read in Nelly's exalté expression,
“How silly Captain Derrick's laugh is,” began Nelly presently.
“Most malicious,” rejoined Mrs, Martin, reluctantly taking her opportunity.
“Oh, I don't think so,” said Nelly. Mrs. Martin saw that the process of enlightenment would have to be strenuous. “I think he's rather kind,” continued her niece. “He simply insisted on holding my parasol.” Again a pleased smile spread over her features, and Mrs. Martin could not find it in her heart to proceed.
“It seems too ridiculous to think that three months ago I was still at school,” continued the débutante.
Mrs. Martin hesitated, and took the plunge.
“I'm afraid it's rather evident still, dear,” she said, hoping the words did not sound as cattish as she felt them.
“Do you think so? The man in the check coat said he thought I couldn't be a day younger than twenty-four,” returned Nelly, trying not to be unreasonably exultant.
“Which proves how absurdly young he must have thought you, before he offered it as a compliment. If he had thought you were twenty-four; the most he could have guessed in common courtesy would be nineteen.”
“After all, I do not see what age matters; it is knowledge of the world that counts,” said Nelly, beating a retreat in good order. Mrs. Martin lowered her sunshade and waited. By the beatific expression that was growing on Nelly's face, she felt sure that the supreme opportunity was coming.
It came. “It is nonsense to imagine that it is difficult to get on with men. One has only to be natural. I was just thinking of Milly Peyton, who was simply terrified at the idea of coming out and being left stranded with a photograph book. If any one is left like that, it must be the girl's fault. Look at me to-day. I did nothing. Of course, one must have a little wit,” concluded Nelly, as if virtue forced her to be candid, even at the risk of being boastful.
“I wondered how your little crowd collected,” said Mrs. Martin, with alluring indifference, but with a twinkle of real curiosity in her eyes. “I left you with Sir Charles. I thought him so very safe.”