There was a momentary silence. Ella’s eyes were sparkling. Her mother’s face had fallen.
“New York!” Ella murmured. “There is wonderful music there, and Mr. Delarey knows it so well.”
Lord Ashleigh nodded portentously.
“I have not finished yet. Mr. Delarey wound up his letter by promising to cable me his final decision in the course of a few days. This cablegram,” he went on, drawing a little slip of blue paper from his pocket, “was brought to me this morning whilst I was shaving. I found it a most inconvenient time, as the lather—”
“Oh, bother the lather, father!” Ella exclaimed. “Read the cablegram, or let me.”
Her father smoothed it out before him and read—
“To Lord Ashleigh, Hamblin House, Dorset, England.
“I find a magnificent programme arranged for at Metropolitan Opera House this year. Have taken box for your daughter, engaged the best professor in the world, and secured an apartment at the Leeland, our most select and comfortable residential hotel. Understand your brother is still in South America, returning early spring, but will do our best to make your daughter’s year of study as pleasant as possible. Advise her sail on Saturday by Mauretania.”
“On Saturday?” Ella almost screamed.
“New York!” Lady Ashleigh murmured disconsolately. “How impossible, George!”
Her husband handed over the letter and cablegram, which Ella at once pounced upon. He then unfolded the local newspaper and proceeded to make an excellent breakfast. When he had quite finished, he lit a cigarette and rose a little abruptly to his feet as a car glided out of the stable yard and slowly approached the front door.