One candle had to be lit before her toilet was completed, and then at half past seven she stole down the stairs, full of shadows, and across the hall to the great dining-room, where the Misses La Sarthe dined in state at seven o’clock, off some thin soup and one other dish, so that at half past seven the cloth had been cleared away by old William (in a black evening coat now and rather a high stock), and the shining mahogany table reflected the two candles in their superb old silver candlesticks.

At this stage, as Halcyone entered the room, it was customary for William to place the dish of apples on the table in front of Miss La Sarthe, and the dish of almonds and raisins in front of Miss Roberta.  The dessert did not vary much for months—­from October to late June it was the same; and only on Sundays was the almond and raisin dish allowed to be partaken of, but an apple was divided into four quarters, after being carefully peeled by Miss La Sarthe, each evening, and Miss Roberta was given two quarters and Halcyone one, while the eldest lady nibbled at the remaining piece herself.

In her day, children had always come down to dessert, and had had to be good and not greedy, or the fate of Miss Augusta Noble of that estimable book, “The Fairchild Family,” would certainly fall upon them.  Halcyone, from her earliest memory, had come down to dessert every night—­except at one or two pleasant moments when the measles or a bad cold had kept her in bed.  Half past seven o’clock, summer and winter, had meant for her the quarter of an apple, two or three strawberries or a plum—­and almost always the same conversation.

Miss La Sarthe sat at the head of the table, in a green silk dress cut low upon the shoulders and trimmed with a bertha of blonde lace.  Miss Roberta—­sad falling off from dignity—­had her thin bones covered with a habit shirt of tulle, because she was altogether a poorer creature than her sister, and felt the cold badly.  Both ladies wore ringlets at the sides of their faces and little caps of ribbon and lace.

Even within Halcyone’s memory, the dining-room had lost some of its adornments.  The Chippendale chairs had gone, and had been replaced by four stout kitchen ones.  The bits of rare china were fewer—­but the portrait of the famous Timothy La Sarthe, by Holbein, still frowned from his place of honor above the chimneypiece.  All the La Sarthes had been christened Timothy since that time.

The affair of the governess seemed to be troubling Miss Roberta.  At intervals she had found comfort in these denizens of the outer world, and, free from the stern eye of Sister Ginevra, had been wont to chat with one and another.  They never stayed long enough for her to know them well, and now this lady—­the fifth within two years—­had refused to return.  Life seemed very dull.

“Need I have any more governesses, Aunt Ginevra?” Halcyone said.  “There is an old gentleman who has bought the orchard house and he says he will teach me Greek—­and I already know a number of other tiresome things.”