"Do you still play at Sunday schools on the beach?" asked the persistent questioner, his voice betraying amusement.
"Play at Sunday schools?" Beryl's face grew hotter and tears came into her eyes. She could not bear to think that this horrid boy knew all about her doings, and was making fun of them. It was unkind of her father to have told him. She lifted an appealing, almost reproachful glance to him at the thought.
"Come, come, Percy; you are touching a painful subject," said Mr. Hollys, as he saw Beryl's look of annoyance. "We none of us like to be reminded of past follies, you know."
The youth laughed a loud, discordant laugh, which Beryl felt to be full of derision. Her father's mention of past follies was not agreeable to her pride. The drive which she had expected to be so pleasant was proving quite the reverse.
They drove on in silence, broken only by an occasional remark from Mr. Hollys to his young guest. At length they reached Egloshayle, and began to descend the steep hill to the house. It was evening, but still light enough for the garden to be clearly visible, and they caught sight of Coral and Miss Burton enjoying a lively game of battledore and shuttlecock on the lawn.
"There is Coral!" exclaimed Mr. Hollys. "Who is that playing with her?"
"Why, papa, that is Miss Burton," said Beryl.
"That Miss Burton," he exclaimed in surprise. "Why, she seems a mere child. She is not at all my idea of a governess. I am afraid I made a mistake in engaging her."
"Now, papa, you don't mean that," said Beryl. "I am sure you would not say it, if you knew her."
"She does not look like a blue-stocking," observed Mr. Hollys, with a merry look in his eyes as he watched the light, little figure that was tossing the shuttlecock with grace and ease.