to be quite her own mistress: and mistress of her two children, whom she was going to bring up "properly," whatever that may mean.
Connie was only allowed a suitcase, also. But she had sent on a trunk to her father, who was going by train. No use taking a car to Venice. And Italy much too hot to motor in, in July. He was going comfortably by train. He had just come down from Scotland.
So, like a demure arcadian field-marshall, Hilda arranged the material part of the journey. She and Connie sat in the upstairs room, chatting.
"But, Hilda!" said Connie, a little frightened. "I want to stay near here tonight. Not here: near here!"
Hilda fixed her sister with grey, inscrutable eyes. She seemed so calm: and she was so often furious.
"Where, near here?" she asked softly.
"Well, you know I love somebody, don't you?"
"I gathered there was something."
"Well, he lives near here, and I want to spend this last night with him. I must! I've promised."
Connie became insistent.
Hilda bent her Minerva-like head in silence. Then she looked up.
"Do you want to tell me who he is," she said.
"He's our gamekeeper," faltered Connie, and she flushed vividly, like a shamed child.
"Connie!" said Hilda, lifting her nose slightly with disgust: a motion she had from her mother.
"I know: but he's lovely really. He really understands tenderness," said Connie, trying to apologise for him.
Hilda, like a ruddy, rich-coloured Athena, bowed her head and pondered. She was really violently angry. But she dared not show it, because Connie, taking after her father, would straightway become obstreperous and unmanageable.
It was true, Hilda did not like Clifford: his cool assurance that he was somebody! She thought he made use of Connie shamefully and impudently. She had hoped her sister would leave him. But, being solid Scotch middle class, she loathed any "lowering" of oneself, or the family. She looked up at last.
"You'll regret it," she said.
