“But I don’t know anything about Mr. Falcon. I really don’t. He’s a friend of Mrs. Lee’s—I mean he was a pupil of the Professor’s—years ago. He—he....” Rosamond stammered on, innocent that she was arousing the worst suspicions in the breast of the one silent maiden in the group, the chaperoned Palametta. “He—er—is coming home to-morrow—from Europe.”
“Europe?”
“Europe?”
“Europe?” the MacMillans.
“For my part,” Miss Graham boomed, “if you don’t stop talking about that man I shall go home. Nothing,” said she, putting her arms akimbo and nudging into the verandah rail—“Nothing disgusts me like a man!”
“I’d be so glad to—to—er—offer you tea,” Rosamond said hastily, glad of a chance to change this embarrassing conversation, “only Amanda and Jemima are away for the day; and I’ve—er been out to tea myself—and—er—the fire’s out. But I hope you’ve all had your tea.”
“Mrs. Witherby wouldn’t tell us a thing about the man.”
“No! she didn’t tell us, either.”
“No! she thinks, if he has money, she’ll get him for Corinne or her precious niece.”
“We tried to get Mabel Crewe to come with us, but she said she didn’t care whether the man came to Roseborough, or not!”