"Your daughters, Madam?" inquired the visitor, with a languid wave of her hand towards the young ladies.
"Yes; does your Ladyship wish to see me without them?"
"Not at all—oh! not at all. Which is Mademoiselle Celia?"
"The woman's French!" exclaimed the Squire, under his breath.
Celia's blood rushed to her face and neck, and then ebbed, leaving her white and faint, as she rose and came slowly forward. "Is this my mother?" she was asking herself, in a mental tumult.
"Ah! that is you? Stand a little farther, if you please. I wish to look at you."
"No; this is not my mother!" said Celia, to her own heart.
"Not by the half so tall as I should like—quite petite!" said Lady Ingram, scanning Celia with a depreciatory air. "And so brown! You cannot bridle—you have no complexion. Eh! ma foi! what an English-looking girl!"
The Squire had almost arrived at the end of his patience. Madam Passmore said quietly, "I ask your Ladyship's pardon, but perhaps you will tell me why you make these remarks on my daughter?"
"I beg yours," said Lady Ingram, languidly. "I thought I had told you. She is a foundling?—Exactly. Et bien, she is my daughter—that is, my husband's daughter."