“‘Remember that I, too, am a child of the house!’”
Ellinor repeated the words drearily to herself. That was the key she herself had found to unlock the door of Sir David’s hospitality.
“Upon my soul,” said Master Simon, “I shall never fall foul of the female intellect again!”
He looked at Ellinor, and laughed drily.
“Oh,” she cried, shocked at this inopportune mirth, “she must not come here—we must prevent it!”
“Prevent it!” he cried irritably. “Do so, if you can, my girl. By the Lord Harry!” the forgotten expletive of his jaunty youth leaped oddly forth over his white beard, “she’s done the trick! Touch David upon his honour, his family obligations! Ha! she knows it too. A pest on you!” he went on, his anger rising suddenly, “with your silly female inquisitiveness. ‘Read it, read it!’ quoth she. Without you, Mrs. Marvel, he’d have sent the precious missive back—unopened, like all the others! Ha, that’s an astute one! ‘If you read these lines,’ she writes. Well she knew that if he once did read them she would win her game!”
Beneath an impatient stamp one slipper fell off. Thrusting his foot back into it, he began to hobble in the direction of Sir David, muttering and growling as he went, not unlike his own Belphegor when his cat-dignity had been grievously offended. Disjointed scraps of his remarks reached Ellinor, as she stood, disconsolate and cold at heart, facing the probable results of her impulse:—“A pretty thing ... disturbing the peace of the house ... a mass of selfishness ... a pack of silly women!”
“Well,” said Sir David, turning round as his cousin drew near.
“Why do you say ‘well’?” snapped the simpler. “You know you’ve made up your mind already, and need none of my advice.”
A bitter smile flickered over Sir David’s face.