"Sarah?" asked Oliver, with interest. "Sarah never liked me."
"Who, it was not Sarah.—it was that maid of Lesley's—Kingston her name is, I believe—who said to one of our servants one day that you went there a great deal oftener than she would like, if she were in my place. There! I have made a full confession. It was a petty spiteful bit of gossip, of course, and I ought not to have listened to it—but then it seemed so natural—and I thought it might be true!"
"What seemed natural?" said Oliver, who, against his will, was looking very black.
"Why, that you should like Lesley; she is the sweetest girl I ever came across."
In his heart Oliver echoed that opinion, but he felt morally bound to deny it.
"You say so only because you have never seen yourself! My darling, how could you accuse me merely on servants' evidence!"
"Is there no truth in it, Oliver?"
"None in the least."
"But you do go there very often!"
Then Oliver achieved a masterpiece of diplomacy. "My dear Ethel," he said, "I will go there no more until you go with me. I will not set foot in the house again."