Priscilla did not at once reply. When at length she looked up, it was with the air of one coming out of a reverie.
"Oh, yes, if you like, Charlotte," she said, in her deep, quiet voice. "No doubt he will amuse you. I know you always enjoy Americans."
"And you, my dear?" said Lady Raffold, with just a hint of sharpness in her tone.
"I?" Again her stepdaughter paused a little, as if collecting her thoughts. "I shall not be here," she said finally. "I have decided to go down to Raffold for midsummer week, and I don't suppose I shall hurry back. It won't matter, will it? I often think that you entertain best alone. And I am so tired of London heat and dust."
There was an unconscious note of wistfulness in the beautiful voice, but its dominant virtue was determination.
Lady Raffold realised at once to her unspeakable indignation that protest was useless.
"Really, Priscilla," was all she found to say, "I am amazed—yes, amazed—at your total lack of consideration."
But Priscilla was quite unimpressed.
"You won't have time to miss me," she said. "I don't think any one will, except, perhaps, Dad; and he always knows where to find me."
"Your father will certainly not leave town before the end of the season," said Lady Raffold, raising her voice slightly.