“Oh no, no,” protested Emma, eagerly.
“Then, Christmas Day is a fixture, remember. Be ready at half-past seven, please, for Hugo is so fidgety about his horses, and hates them to be kept standing. On second thoughts, had you not better stay all night? Yes, that’s it! Just bring a basket trunk, and we will send you home after breakfast. Now, now,” with a gay, imperative gesture, “pray don’t say a word—it is all settled;” and, with a hasty good-by, she was already at the door.
But it was Emma’s turn to introduce an afterthought, and my impulsive little Irish stepmother cried, “Oh, do wait one second, Lady Hildegarde; I want to ask about your son.” I was facing her ladyship, and noticed that her gracious countenance had assumed an impatient expression. This expression became absolutely grim as the words, “We saw him in London—he was so good to us!” fell on her ear.
“In London!” she repeated slowly, turning about to confront Emma, and speaking in a cool, constrained voice—an insolent voice. “How did he discover you?”
“Quite by accident, I assure you!” Why should Emma’s tone so suddenly assume an apologetic key? “We met at the Stores!”
“The Stores!”—a pregnant pause—“Oh, so you were the people?” She paused again, and continued in a more genial tone, “I think I did hear something about it!” I was certain that she had heard everything about it, and had been greatly displeased; but why?
“Where is Mr. Everard Somers?” pursued Emma, rather timidly; “and how is he?”