“A week,” said Gordon.
Mr. Trenter went down to the servants’ hall importantly.
“The old man’s given me a week’s holiday to see my aunt. I’m leaving to-morrow.”
Eleanor was constitutionally suspicious.
“Bit sudden, isn’t it? He’s going away to-morrow too. You men are devils! Us women never know what you’re up to.”
Trenter smiled cryptically. It added to his self-confidence to be suspected of devilish deeds.
“Noos verrong,” he said, and added the information: “French.”
“Is Miss Diana going?” asked the cook.
“With me or him?” demanded Trenter insolently. “She’s not going with him! And do I blame him? No! She’s no lady, that’s my firm opinion.”
“Then keep it to yourself!” said Eleanor, shrill of voice. “I don’t want you to say anything about Miss Diana!”