Old Comrades
Copyright© 2026 by Agnes Giberne
Chapter 8: Afternoon Tea
“NOW you will sit down, and have some tea,” Mrs. Effingham said to Dorothea. “Yes, here—by Emmeline—Miss Claughton, I mean. My dear, pray be kind,” she whispered distressfully to the latter, bending close to pick up a fallen antimacassar. Mervyn, starting forward to forestall her, heard the small petition, and noted Emmeline’s irresponsive gravity. “Too bad of Em!” he told himself, with a little twirl of his fair moustache, to hide the smile behind it.
Dorothea took the seat indicated, and Emmeline, turning towards her, made a distantly courteous remark upon the weather.
“Yes, very fine,” Dorothea answered. She wore her neat dark brown costume, the brown hat, with its suggestion of red, suiting well her rather short and rounded face, and delicate features. The wistful eyes shone as usual through glasses, the set of which on her little nose, combined with the forward carriage of her head, gave a peculiar air of keen attention. There was something about Dorothea altogether out of the common—singularly free from self-consciousness, markedly quiet, the gloved hands lying still, with a lady-like absence of fidgets. She seemed to be neither anxious to push her way, nor susceptible to Emmeline’s chilling manner.
Mervyn found her interesting; partly perhaps out of compassion for the charming old lady, Mrs. Effingham; partly perhaps from a perverse love of opposition, inclining him to go the contrary way to his sister; but partly also from a certain quickness of appreciation. He stood up politely to hand cake and tea, and when everybody’s wants were supplied, he carelessly took possession of a chair on the other side of Dorothea.
“I suppose you are an experienced Londoner,” came in subdued tones.
“I! O no,” Dorothea answered. “I came home a week before Christmas.”
“From—?” questioningly.
“School.”
“Ah!” He had wondered what her age might be. “Not in town?”
“In Scotland. I have not been in London for years.”
“And you like it?”
“I like St. Paul’s—if one need not go through it merely as a sight.”
Mrs. Effingham, listening to Miss Henniker, cast a grateful glance at Mervyn; and Emmeline, hearing the murmur of voices, cast a glance also, not grateful in kind.
The conversation was not at present brilliant.
“Scotland?” Mervyn said musingly. “Edinburgh, perhaps.”
“Yes; the outskirts. There is nothing in London like Arthur’s Seat.”
“Not even the top gallery of St. Paul’s?”
“Oh!” Dorothea uttered an indignant monosyllable, then paused.
“Well?” he said, smiling.
“One can’t compare the two. And everything is so shut in here. There is no getting away from the people. Yet—” as if to herself, “I wanted to come!”
“I suppose the acmé of a school-girl’s desires is to have done with school.”
The wistful eyes went straight to his face, dubiously—not occupied with him, but with her own thoughts. They were pretty eyes, he could see.
“I wonder if one goes through life like that, —always wishing for something different?”
Mervyn laughed slightly. “Is that your present state of mind?”
“I don’t care for London. And I should like—very much—”
A pause.
“You would like—?” he said.
“One or two friends.”
“A modest wish, at all events. Most people ‘would like’ one or two hundred.”
“Would they?”
“Certainly. You are not in the swing of London society yet.”
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