"Poor child!" she murmured—"poor child! she is but a child; but he won't care. Is it too late, I wonder? But why should I worry about it?"
But it seemed as if she must worry about it, whatever it was, for after a few minutes' effort to sleep, she rose and went across to the tea-table.
Lady Wyndward was making tea, but looked up and pushed a chair close beside her.
"What is it?" she asked, with a smile.
"Who is she?" asked the countess, taking a cup and stirring the tea round and round, very much as Betty the washerwoman does—very much indeed.
Lady Wyndward did not ask "Who?" but replied in her serene, placid voice directly:
"I don't know. Of course, I know that she is Mr. Etheridge's niece, but I don't know anything about her, except that she has just come here from Italy. She said that she was not happy there."
"She is very beautiful," murmured the countess.
"She is—very," assented Lady Wyndward.
"And something more than distinguished. I never saw a more graceful girl. She is only a child, of course."