Violet coloured crimson, and wished herself under the table; Theodora made violent efforts to keep from an explosion of laughing.
‘No,’ said Violet, rather indignantly; ‘he is—he is—he is—’ she faltered, not knowing how to describe one so nearly a relation, ‘a great friend of—’
Theodora having strangled the laugh, came to her rescue, and replied, with complete self-possession, ‘His sister, who died, was engaged to my eldest brother.’
‘Oh! I beg your pardon. You look on him as a sort of family connection. I suppose, then, he is one of the Fotheringhams of Worthbourne? Matilda fancied he was the literary man of that name; but that could not be.’
‘Why not?’ said Theodora, extremely diverted.
‘A poet, an author! I beg your pardon; but a lady alone could suppose one of that description could be employed in a practical matter. Is not it Shakespeare who speaks of the poet’s eye in a fine frenzy rolling? Eh, Violet? I shall never forget the gove—my father’s indignation when he detected your humble servant in the act of attempting a slight tribute to the Muses. I believe the old gentleman looked on my fate as sealed.’
‘Albert!’ said Violet, feeling as if she must stop his mouth, ‘you are quite mistaken. Mr. Fotheringham does belong to the family you mean, and he did write “The Track of the Crusaders”. He has been attached to the embassy in Turkey, and is waiting for another appointment.’ Then, looking at Theodora, ‘You never told me how far you went to-day.’
Theodora detailed her long pursuit of the chenille, and her successful discovery of it at last. Albert’s gratitude was extreme; his sister would be delighted and flattered, the work would receive an additional value in the eyes of all, and he might well say so, he was a party concerned, the material was for a waistcoat, to be worn on an occasion—but his sister would explain.
Violet thought he had exposed himself quite enough; and as dessert was on the table, she rose with as good a smile as she could, saying, ‘Very well, I’ll explain; you will find your way to the drawing-room,’ and retreated.
Theodora caressingly drew her arm into hers, much pleased with her, and accepting her as entirely Martindale, and not at all Moss. ‘What! is he going to be married in it?’