Mentally, she was not strong, and perhaps her manner was too elaborate:
she draped herself when she sat down as if her skirts were window-
curtains. Toy Pomeranians were a hobby of hers, and the early Florentine
masters. She could read off the names of the saints in a sacred
conversation as easily as you or I a row of actresses in a photograph
shop. Mrs. Jameson's books were at her fingers' ends. Her mother favoured
her more than any of her children, and was often at her house on visits.
Gerald Scales called her the Dowager, and pleased her vastly. He himself
was Tubby to his friends.
Vicky, a year older than Sanchia, had married a Captain Sinclair, who was
stationed at Aldershot. She had been the romp of former days and, when the
storm had burst, hotly on the culprit's side. But Vicky had been flighty,
and marriage changes one. Sanchia's eyes grew wistful as she sat, her
letters on the wing, and thought of Vicky.
Her first response was from Melusine, in a telegram from Taplow which
read, "Darling, alas!" and no more. Her comment was shrewd: "Mamma is
there"--and she was right. Then came her father's letter, to pluck at her
heart-strings. He invited her to the Poultry at "any hour of the day--and
the sooner the better;" but was clear that she could not visit Great
Cumberland Place without writing to Mamma.
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