“Hullo, Fordham!” he sung out, as his friend at that moment passed through the hall. “I want to introduce you to Mr Glover here; just arrived, you know. Miss Glover—Mr Fordham. Knows the country like a book,” he went on, desperately.
But this manoeuvre, so far from helping him had precisely the opposite effect; for the old man, with effusive cordiality, at once buttonholed Fordham, leaving the girl free to take possession of Phil.
Well, what then? To all appearances the situation was the very reverse of an unenviable one—indeed, more than one man passing through the hall at the time looked upon the ill-starred Philip with eyes of downright envy as he grumbled to himself, “Is that conceited ass Orlebar going to monopolise every pretty girl who comes near the place?” Poor Phil! how willingly he would have yielded up this one to the attentions of each and all who might choose to offer them.
In one particular they were right. Edith Glover was a very pretty girl. She had large blue eyes, and profuse brown hair falling in a natural wavy fringe around her brows. She had a clear complexion, regular features, and a bright, laughing expression. She was of medium height, had a good figure, and dressed well. But with all these advantages she lacked one thing, in common with her father, and that was the hallmark of birth. There was no mistake about it. With all her engaging prettiness and tasteful attire there was this one thing painfully, obviously lacking. She would have looked far more in keeping—and therefore possibly more attractive—in the cap, apron, and print dress of a housemaid, and her speech would have agreed thereto.
It is an accepted saying that the letter “h” constitutes a crucial shibboleth to the individual of dubious birth and British nationality; but there is another letter to which this applies with almost equal force, and that is the letter “a”. Now the first letter of the alphabet as enunciated by Edith Glover sounded uncommonly like the ninth—to wit, the letter “i.”
“We will sit together at table, dear, of course,” she murmured, sweetly, with a killing glance into his eyes.
“Um—ah—er,” mumbled Philip. “Awful sorry, but afraid our end of the table’s full up—in fact, crowded.”
“Oh, but you can come down to ours.”
“Er—hardly. You see I’m with some people—very jolly party—came up here together. Can’t desert them, don’t you know.”
Edith Glover had a temper, but now she judiciously dropped her eyes so that he should not see the expression which had come into them.