This extraordinary speech made the three ladies stare at him in bewilderment. The butler, who had only a minute before withdrawn from the hall, sailed back again with his attendant satellites, and trod across the marble floor to the front door, announcing, with a bow to his mistress, that he apprehended Miss Stanton-Lacy had that instant arrived. The satellites then threw open the double door, and the ladies had a clear view not only of the equipage in the road but of the awed and inquisitive faces of the younger members of the family, who had been playing at bat-and-ball in the garden of the Square and were now crowded close to the railings, gazing, in spite of Miss Adderbury’s remonstrances, at the animal which had brought Hubert in such pelting haste down the stairs.

Miss Stanton-Lacy’s arrival was certainly impressive. Four steaming horses drew her chaise, two outriders accompanied it, and behind it rode a middle-aged groom, leading a splendid black horse. The steps of the chaise were let down, the door opened, and out leaped an Italian greyhound, to be followed a moment later by a gaunt-looking female, holding a dressing bag, three parasols, and a bird cage. Lastly, Miss Stanton-Lacy herself descended, thanking the footman for his proffered help, but requesting him instead to hold her poor little Jacko. Her poor little Jacko was seen to be a monkey in a scarlet coat, and no sooner had this magnificent fact dawned on the schoolroom party than they brushed past their scandalized preceptress, tore open the garden gate, and tumbled out into the road, shouting, “A monkey! She has brought a monkey!”

Lady Ombersley, meanwhile, standing as though rooted to her own doorstep, was realizing, with strong indignation, that the light in which a gentleman of great height and large proportions regarded his daughter had been misleading. Sir Horace’s little Sophy stood five feet nine inches in her stocking-feet, and was built on generous lines, a long-legged, deep-bosomed creature, with a merry face, and a quantity of glossy brown ringlets under one of the most dashing hats her cousins had ever seen. A pelisse was buttoned up to her throat, a very long sable stole was slipping from her shoulders, and she carried an enormous sable muff. This, however, she thrust into the second footman’s hands so that she was the better able to greet Amabel, who was the first to reach her. Her dazed aunt watched her stoop gracefully over the little girl, catching her hands, and saying laughingly, “Yes, yes, indeed I am your cousin Sophia, but pray won’t you call me Sophy? If anyone calls me Sophia I think I am in disgrace, which is a very uncomfortable thing. Tell me your name!”

“It’s Amabel, and oh, if you please, may I talk to the monkey?” stammered the youngest Miss Rivenhall.

“Of course you may, for I brought him for you. Only be a little gentle with him at first, because he is shy, you know.”

“Brought him for me?” gasped Amabel, quite pale with excitement.

“For you all,” said Sophy, embracing Gertrude and Theodore in her warm smile. “And also the parrot. Do you like pets better than toys and books? I always did, so I thought very likely you would too.”

“Cousin!” said Hubert, breaking in on the fervent assurances of his juniors that their new relative had gauged their tastes with an accuracy utterly unequaled in all their experience of adults. “Is that your horse?”

She turned, surveying him with a certain unselfconscious candor, the smile still lingering on her mouth. “Yes, that is Salamanca. Do you like him?”

“By Jove, I should think I do! Is he Spanish? Did you bring him from Portugal?”

“Cousin Sophy, what is your dear little dog’s name? What kind of a dog is it?”

“Cousin Sophy, can the parrot talk? Addy, may we keep it in the schoolroom?”

“Mama, Mama, Cousin Sophy has brought us a monkey!”

This last shout, from Theodore, made Sophy look quickly round. Perceiving her aunt and her two other cousins in the doorway, she ran up the steps, exclaiming, “Dear Aunt Elizabeth! I beg your pardon! I was making friends with the children! How do you do? I am so happy to be with you! Thank you for letting me come to you!”

Lady Ombersley was still dazed, still clutching feebly at the fast vanishing picture of the shy little niece of her imaginings, but at these words that insipid damsel was cast into the limbo of things unregretted and unremembered. She clasped Sophy in her arms, raising her face to the glowing one above her, and saying tremulously, “Dear, dear Sophy! So happy! So like your father! Welcome, dear child, welcome!”

She was quite overcome, and it was several moments before she could recollect herself enough to introduce Sophy to Cecilia and Selina. Sophy stared at Cecilia, and exclaimed: “Are you Cecilia? But you are so beautiful! Why don’t I remember that?”

Cecilia, who had been feeling quite overpowered, began to laugh. You could not suspect Sophy of saying things like that only to please you. She said exactly what came into her head. “Well, I did not remember either!” she retorted. “I thought you were a little brown cousin, all legs and tangled hair!”

“Yes, but I am — oh, not tangled, perhaps, but all legs, I assure you, and dreadfully brown! I have not grown into a beauty! Sir Horace tells me I must abandon all pretensions — and he is a judge, you know!”

Sir Horace was right. Sophy would never be a beauty. She was by far too tall; nose and mouth were both too large; and a pair of expressive gray eyes could scarcely be held to atone entirely for these defects. Only you could not forget Sophy, even though you could not recall the shape of her face or the color of her eyes.

She had turned again toward her aunt. “Will your people direct John Potton where he may stable Salamanca, ma’am? Only for tonight! And a room for himself? I shall arrange everything just as soon as I have learnt my way about!”

Mr. Hubert Rivenhall made haste to assure her that he would himself conduct John Potton to the stables. She smiled, and thanked him, and Lady Ombersley said that there was room and to spare for Salamanca in the stables, and she must not trouble her head about such matters. But it seemed that Sophy was determined to trouble her head, for she answered quickly, “No, no, my horses are not to be a charge on you, dear aunt! Sir Horace most particularly charged me to make my own arrangements, if I should be setting up my stable, and indeed I mean to do so! But for tonight it would be so kind of you!”

There was enough here to set her aunt’s brain reeling. What kind of a niece was this, who set up her stable, made her own arrangements, and called her father Sir Horace? Then Theodore created a diversion, coming up with the scared monkey clasped in his arms, demanding that she should tell Addy that he might take it to the schoolroom, since Cousin Sophy had given it to them. Lady Ombersley shrank from the monkey, and said feebly, “My love, I don’t think — oh, dear, whatever will Charles say?”

“Charles is not such a muff as to be afraid of a monkey!” declared Theodore. “Oh, Mama, pray tell Addy we may keep him.

“Indeed, Jacko will not bite anyone!” Sophy said. “I have had him with me for close on a week, and he is the gentlest creature! You will not banish him, Miss — Miss Addy? No, I know that is wrong!”

“Miss Adderbury, but we always call her Addy!” Cecilia explained.

“How do you do?” Sophy said, holding out her hand. “Forgive me! It was impertinent, but I did not know! Do permit the children to keep poor Jacko!”

Between her dismay at having a monkey thrust upon her and her desire to please this glowing girl, who smiled so kindly down at her and extended her hand with such frank good nature, Miss Adderbury lost herself in a morass of half-sentences. Lady Ombersley said that they must ask Charles, a remark which was at once interpreted as permission to take Jacko up to the schoolroom at once, none of the children thinking so poorly of their brother as to believe that he would raise the least objection to their new pet. Sophy was then led up to the Blue Saloon, where she at once cast her sables onto a chair, unbuttoned her pelisse, and tossed off her modish hat. Her aunt, fondly drawing her down to sit beside her on the sofa, asked her if she were tired from the long journey, and if she would like to take some refreshment.

“No, indeed! Thank you, but I am never tired, and although it was a trifle tedious, I could not count it as a journey!” Sophy replied. “I should have been with you this morning, only that I was obliged to go first to Merton.”

“Go first to Merton?” echoed Lady Ombersley. “But why, my love? Have you acquaintances there?”

“No, no, but Sir Horace particularly desired it!”

“My dear, do you always call you papa Sir Horace?” asked Lady Ombersley.

The gray eyes began to dance again. “No, if he makes me very cross I call him Papa!” Sophy said. “It is of all things what he most dislikes! Poor angel, it is a great deal too bad that he should be saddled with such a maypole for a daughter, and no one could expect him to bear it!” She perceived that her aunt was looking a little shocked, and added, with her disconcerting frankness, “You don’t like that. I am so sorry, but indeed he is a delightful parent, and I love him dearly! But it is one of his maxims, you know, that one should never allow one’s partiality to blind one to a person’s defects.”

The startling proposition that a daughter should be encouraged to take note of her father’s faults so much horrified Lady Ombersley that she could think of nothing to say. Selina, who liked to get to the root of everything, asked why Sir Horace had particularly desired Sophy to go to Merton.

“Only to take Sancia to her new home,” Sophy explained. “That was why you saw me with those absurd outriders. Nothing will convince poor Sancia that English roads are not infested with bandits and guerilleros!”

“But who is Sancia?” demanded Lady Ombersley, in some bewilderment.

“Oh, she is the Marquesa de Villacañas! Did Sir Horace not tell you her name? You will like her; indeed, you must like her! She is quite stupid, and dreadfully indolent, like all Spaniards, but so pretty and good natured!” She saw that her aunt was now wholly perplexed, and her straight, rather thick brows drew together. “You don’t know? He did not tell you? Now, how infamous of him! Sir Horace is going to marry Sancia.”

“What?” gasped Lady Ombersley.

Sophy leaned forward to take her hand, and to press it coaxingly. “Yes, indeed he is, and you must be glad, if you please, because she will suit him very well. She is a widow, and extremely wealthy.”

“A Spaniard!” said Lady Ombersley. “He never breathed a word of this to me!”

“Sir Horace says that explanations are so tedious,” said Sophy excusingly. “I daresay he might have felt that it would take too long. Or,” she added, a mischievous look in her eyes, “that I would do it for him!”

“I never heard of such a thing!” said Lady Ombersley, almost roused to wrath. “Just like Horace! And when, pray, my dear, does he mean to marry this Marquesa?”

“Well,” said Sophy seriously, “that, I fancy, is why he did not care to explain it all to you. Sir Horace cannot marry Sancia until I am off his hands. It is so awkward for him, poor dear! I have promised to do my best, but I cannot engage to marry anyone I don’t like! He understands my feelings perfectly. I will say this for Sir Horace, that he is never unreasonable!”

Lady Ombersley was strongly of the opinion that these remarks were quite unsuited to her daughters’ ears, but she saw no way of stemming them. Selina, still delving to the roots, asked, “Why cannot your papa be married until you are, Sophy?”

“On account of Sancia,” replied Sophy readily. “Sancia says she does not at all wish to be my stepmama.”

Lady Ombersley was smitten to the heart. “My poor child!” she said, laying a hand on Sophy’s knee. “You are so brave, but you may confide in me! She is jealous of you. I believe all Spaniards have the most shockingly jealous natures! It is too bad of Horace! If I had known this! Is she unkind, Sophy? Does she dislike you?”

Sophy went off into a peal of laughter. “Oh, no, no, no! I am sure she never disliked anyone in all her life! The thing is that if she married Sir Horace while I am still on his hands everyone will expect her to behave to me like a mama, and she is much too lazy! Then, too, with the best will in the world, I might continue to manage Sir Horace, and his house and everything that I have been accustomed to do. We have talked it over, and I can’t but see that there is a great deal in what she says. But as for jealousy, no indeed! She is much too handsome to be jealous of me, and much too good natured as well. She says that she has the greatest imaginable affection for me, but share a house with me she will not. I do not blame her. Pray do not think I blame her!”