Читать книгу Sydney Lisle, the Heiress of St. Quentin онлайн

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“The castle is simply full of them,” she said. “All the Lisles have been collectors; it is one of their many irritating ways. I hope you haven’t any hobby, my dear?”

“Hobby” was a new word in Sydney’s vocabulary, and she hardly knew how to answer the question. But a reply was the one thing Lady Frederica never wanted, and she went on talking in her clear, high-bred, rather monotonous voice until they reached the first of Sydney’s rooms.

“They all open from one another,” she said, as the girl looked round with dazzled eyes. “You like them? That’s right. St. Quentin told me to get everything you would require. Your bedroom is the innermost, you see. Then comes your morning-room, where you can do what you like without risk of being interfered with. And this last is your school-room—yours, too; till you share it with a governess. How old are you, by the way?”

“I shall be eighteen on the thirty-first of December,” Sydney answered.

“Well, perhaps I shall let you off regular lessons,” Lady Frederica said; “but you must have masters for accomplishments. I shall tell St. Quentin so. I don’t suppose you learnt much with that doctor—what was his name?—Chichester? Gracious, child, how white you are! I hope you are not going to be delicate! One invalid in the castle is quite enough—especially one with a temper like St. Quentin’s. I’ll send your maid to you, and you had better rest a little before dressing for dinner. We dine at eight. Au revoir, my dear!”