Star of India

								

a West End physician. And as to the villagers; everyone knew that they
were never contented, no matter what was done for them. At this point in
her reflections Stella fell asleep.
The service over, she followed grandmamma and the aunts slowly down the
aisle, while the school children clattered through the porch. The Court
party left the building by the chancel door, and Stella saw them pace
down the slope of the churchyard between the tombstones and the yew
trees to where a carriage and pair of horses awaited them at the gates.
Squire Verrall went first, in a black coat and a square hat like a box,
his whiskers were brushed smartly aside from his ruddy cheeks, his large
nose shone in the sun, he waved his malacca cane to the school children
marshalled on either side of the pathway; Mrs. Verrall followed,
delicate, smiling, sweet, in dark green satin, and a white ostrich
feather floating from a boat-shaped hat; with her came the pretty
visitor, who walked with a Grecian bend ... and Maud. Stella observed
that Maud was "showing off"; that she minced and looked down her nose as
she passed between the rows of bobbing, saluting children and villagers.
Stella was filled with an envious contempt for such conceit; such airs
and graces! Three maid-servants completed the procession; even they
would drive back to The Court, on the rumble of the big carriage, while
Stella Carrington would walk through the lanes to The Chestnuts pulling
her grandmother's chair, Aunt Augusta pushing behind, Aunt Ellen
shielding the old lady with a green-lined umbrella. They would wait on
themselves at luncheon; probably there would be boiled mutton and a milk
pudding....
There was: in her present rebellious mood, the sight of the plain,
wholesome food was to Stella as the proverbial last straw. Aunt Augusta
carved the mutton; a watery red stream issued from the joint, mingling
with the caper sauce that surrounded it.
"None for me, thank you," said Stella, with suppressed fury.
"My dear, why not?" It was grandmamma who made the inquiry, and Stella
thought the old lady looked like a sea-gull, seated at the end of the
table in her close white cap, her snowy hair looped on either side of
her curved nose.
"I hate boiled mutton!" Beneath her rising defiance the girl was
conscious of amazement at her own temerity. She pushed back her chair
and stood up, quivering--a slim young beauty, giving promise of fine
development, though neither beauty nor promise had as yet been
recognised by herself or by her guardians.
"Yes, I do hate it!" she cried, and her eyes, the colour of burnt
sienna, filled with rebellious tears, "and I hate milk puddings and
babyish clothes, and getting up in the morning and going to bed at night
with nothing in between--the same every day. How you could all stand up
and sing that hymn, 'I dare not choose my lot,'" she mocked, "'I
would not if I might,' as if you meant it! Why, for most of us, it was