“Why are you writing silly notes to that child?” she demanded, as soon as we were away from the inn.
“Was it silly?”
“You should know. Do you think that style of humour suitable for a young girl?”
This bewildered me a little. “But there wasn’t anything offensive—”
“No?” Miss Elizabeth lifted her eyebrows to a height of bland inquiry. “She mightn’t think it rather—well, rough? Your suggesting that she should take cooking lessons?”
“But SHE suggested she might take PAINTING lessons,” was my feeble protest. “I only meant to show her I understood that she wanted to get to the inn.”
“And why should she care to ‘get to the inn’?”
“She seemed interested in a young man who is staying there. 'Interested’ is the mildest word for it I can think of.”
“Pooh!” Such was Miss Ward’s enigmatic retort, and though I begged an explanation I got none. Instead, she quickened the horse’s gait and changed the subject.
At the chateau, having a mind to offer some sort of apology, I looked anxiously about for the subject of our rather disquieting conversation, but she was not to be seen until the party assembled at the table, set under an awning on the terrace. Then, to my disappointment, I found no opportunity to speak to her, for her seat was so placed as to make it impossible, and she escaped into the house immediately upon the conclusion of the repast, hurrying away too pointedly for any attempt to detain her—though, as she passed, she sent me one glance of meek reproach which she was at pains to make elaborately distinct.