CHAPTER X.

_A QUESTION OF AGES._

PADDINGTON STATION at last, after changes and waitings diverse. Pauline secured a porter, and went with him after her trunk—in a hurry, of course, though no special cause for hurry existed. Everybody is in a hurry on arrival at a station, and Pauline proved no exception to the rule. When her trunk had been extracted from the piles of luggage, she saw a young footman stroll up and take a negligent glance at the name upon it. Then he followed it and the porter to where Pauline stood.

"For Miss Primrose?" he asked.

"Yes," Pauline answered.

"This way, if you please. The brougham is waiting."

Pauline's previous imaginings had somehow failed to include brougham or footman. She had looked upon the rattling London cab as inevitable.

"But this is much more comfortable," she told herself when off.

Within a reasonable time the brougham stopped at a good-sized solid house, tall in proportion to its breadth, after the wont of town buildings. A balcony well filled with flowers caught Pauline's glance. That did not look like lodgings. Had Miss Primrose a town house, as well as a country house?

"Miss Primrose was out—unavoidably," the footman said, as Pauline entered. "She would be in presently. Would Miss Ogilvie like to go to her own room?"

Miss Ogilvie did like, and a maid was summoned to escort her thither. Plainly this was the best guest-chamber, handsomely furnished, with a bow-window.

"I don't feel yet as if I was acting 'humble companion,'" Pauline said aloud. "But that has to come. I'm only on inspection now."

She had time to unpack and put away her belongings, in the midst of which operation a maid appeared to offer assistance. Pauline, being of an independent temperament, declined, and the maid vanished. Nobody else came. A clock struck five, and Pauline's inner woman was proclaiming the need for afternoon tea.

"I think I'll go downstairs," she said.

She met no living creature by the way, and the drawing-room was deserted still. Tea stood upon a basket-table, ready for use.

"I wish somebody would appear," murmured Pauline, who was addicted to audible soliloquies when alone. "I'm desperately hungry . . . I wonder if I might venture to steal a biscuit! Is it allowable? No, I'm afraid not. Miss Primrose is a stranger to me."

Pauline roved round the room, looking at photographs and ornaments.

"That's a nice likeness of an old lady. Miss Primrose herself, most likely. She looks tolerably agreeable. Well, I suppose the next stage of affairs will be that I shall pick up stitches in her knitting. If that is the hardest part of my duties, I shall not need to complain . . . Dear me, I should be glad of a cup of tea. I wish I might help myself."

"Why don't you?" asked a soft voice, and a girl came forward from the further door, which Pauline had scarcely noticed.

She was quite a girl, younger than Pauline, with laughing eyes, and little curls and waves of brown hair above a small oval face, whose bright bloom contrasted with unusual fairness. A very, very pretty creature, Pauline saw at a glance—of medium height, beautifully proportioned, and full of grace. Could this possibly be Miss Primrose? Pauline stood more upright than usual, unconsciously tilting her nose.

"Is Miss Primrose at home yet? I have come—she sent for me to see if I should do as a companion." Pauline was determined to begin on no false pretences. "I think the servants have made a mistake, and put me into the wrong room."

"O no, it is all right. That is our spare room," said the girl. "My aunt is not able to come down, I am sorry to say."

"Your aunt, Miss Primrose?" Then this was a niece, a guest.

"May I give you some tea? I am afraid you are hungry?" with a slight flash of fun.

"Did you hear me? It is so stupid. I always talk aloud when I am alone. Were you there long?"

"At the door? Only a few seconds. It was so charming, I couldn't resolve to come forward directly. Pray sit down."

Pauline obeyed, and the pretty creature proceeded to pull off a handsome cosy.

"Some cream? Some sugar?" she asked. "Do help yourself to bread-and-butter. You must be half starved. Such a shame that you have had to wait!"

"Are you Miss Primrose's niece?" asked Pauline presently.

"No, my aunt is Mrs. Palmer. I live with her, but my own name is Primrose."

"You are not Miss Primrose?" uttered Pauline.

"Strangers generally call me so. My home-name is Viola."

Pauline gave a startled look over her tea-cup, her worst fears realised. "My Miss Primrose is young and beautiful," Mr. Rudge had said. Then this "was" Mr. Rudge's Miss Primrose—this charming girl, who might be called either beautiful or lovely according to taste. Talk of Nessie's prettiness! The limp and listless attractions of Nessie faded into nothingness beside the glow and sparkle of—Miss Primrose.

"Did you expect me to be different?" asked the girl.

Pauline murmured some incoherent words, then rallied her scattered forces.

"But there is some mistake. There must be some mistake. You cannot be the real Miss Primrose—my father's old friend?"

"Are you sure?"—as soberly as a judge. "Did he ever tell you the age of his friend?"

Pauline could not say that he had exactly. She only knew—yes, certainly she knew—that her father had been acquainted with Miss Primrose more than twenty-five years before—in her own babyhood, in fact. And she stated as much, confusedly.

"Ah, yes. It will all fit in soon," said Miss Primrose gently. "It's wonderful how things fit in, when one knows all about them, however puzzling they seemed before. But sometimes the ins and outs take a little time to master—like the details of a new science, you know. We'll go into the question more closely some day soon, when we know one another. That is the first thing. You are going to be my companion, and I'm going to learn all I can about you."

"Then—am I to be your companion? Not your aunt's?"

"Why, yes! My aunt has her nurse; and I've nobody to go about with, in London. People say I ought not to go about alone. When I'm married, it won't matter, of course," with a smile.

So she was engaged to be married!

"Then was it you, or was it your aunt, who wrote the card to my father?"

"Auntie dictated, and I wrote."

"But—his letter was not to you?"

"You want to grasp everything at once. And I would rather you should not," declared Miss Primrose, sweetly. "Isn't it good for us sometimes not to understand? We're a little apt to get conceited, you know, and to think too much of our own powers." This was in a tone of soft moralising. "Will you have some more tea? No! Then would you like to rest?"

"I must write home," said Pauline.

"You will find paper and stamps at the side table here. Perhaps it would be as well not to puzzle your father with the question of ages till you understand them better. But do just as you like. I want you to feel at home. Tell him, at all events, that I will do my best to give you a pleasant month in town."

"That is all very well. But what are to be my duties?" asked Pauline.