“Yes; Miss Ward told me you were.”
“Yes; she drove over with you. That’s it!” she exclaimed with vigour, and nodded her head as if some suspicion of hers had been confirmed. “I thought so!”
“You thought she had told me?”
“No,” said Miss Elliott decidedly. “Thought that Elizabeth wanted to have her cake and eat it too.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Then you’ll get no help from me,” she returned slowly, a frown marking her pretty forehead. “But I was only playing offended, and she knew it. I thought your note was THAT fetching!”
She continued to look thoughtful for a moment longer, then with a resumption of her former manner—the pretence of an earnestness much deeper than the real—“Will you take me painting with you?” she said. “If it will convince you that I mean it, I’ll give up my hopes of seeing that SUMPTUOUS Mr. Saffren and go back to Quesnay now, before he comes home. He’s been out for a walk—a long one, since it’s lasted ever since early this morning, so the waiter told me. May I go with you? You CAN’T know how enervating it is up there at the chateau—all except Mrs. Harman, and even she—”
“What about Mrs. Harman?” I asked, as she paused.
“I think she must be in love.”
“What!”