Alex felt sure that she ought not to listen, and at the same time kept motionless lest they should notice her and lower their voices.
She felt eagerly anxious to overhear what the grey-haired gentleman might have to say after the very grown-up way in which she had made conversation with him at lunch, and having been a very pretty and much-admired drawing-room child in her nursery days, could not altogether divest herself of the expectation that she must still be found pretty and entertaining.
But the grey-haired gentleman said impartially:
"They are neither of them a patch on Lady Isabel, are they?"
"They are at the awkward age," laughed the lady to whom he was talking. "One of them sat next to you at lunch, didn't she?"
"Yes. Not quite so natural as the other children. That little, red-haired American girl, now—a regular child—"
Alex, with a face grown suddenly scarlet, left Barbara, shyly, and Cedric, briefly, to thank their hostess for the pleasant day they had spent.
A new, and far more painful self-consciousness than any she had yet known, hampered her tongue and her movements, until they were safely in the pony-carriage half-way down the drive.
"They are nice, aren't they?" said Barbara. "I'm sure they are nicer than Queenie."
"No, they aren't," Alex contradicted mechanically.