John.
The invitation was made and accepted in parting.
"Do come. We shan't have many people, you know; but I won't let you be
dull. And Bill will be there, of course--and you rather like Bill--and a
queer old Aunt of ours who knows everybody. So I hope you won't mind."
"I'm sure I shan't," Sanchia said, and then they shook hands.
Bill Chevenix, who had been present, waved himself away from the doorstep.
"By-by, my dear," he said. "You've done bravely by me. Isn't she
splendid?"
"I like her," said Mrs. John. "But she's rather unapproachable."
Bill chuckled. "That's her little way. She don't kiss easily."
Mrs. John said that he ought to know.
The party was anything but dull. Lady Maria dined with seven other people,
the best that could be mustered on short notice--and Sanchia came in at
ten o'clock, when the drawing-room was full. She came with an elderly
friend, a Mrs. Quantock, whose acquaintance she had made in an omnibus,
and renewed at the British Museum. Mrs. Quantock was an authoress by
profession, a poetess by temperament. Her emotions, not always under
control, consorted oddly with her broad and placid face. She knew Lady
Maria Wenman, and it was she who actually performed the introduction, Mrs.
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