The hostess felt better after this, but her curiosity was excited, and as George entered the room she went forward to meet him.
“I am so sorry,” she said. “The Fearings are here and you will have to sit next to the younger one. You see we have only just heard—I am so sorry.”
George Wood inclined his head a little. He was very quiet and grave.
“I may as well tell you at once,” he said, “that there is not a word of truth in the story they are telling. I shall be very much obliged if you will deny it when you hear it mentioned. There never was any engagement between Miss Fearing and me.”
“Well, I am very glad to hear it. Pray, forgive me,” said the lady of the house.
George met Constance with his most impenetrably civil manner and they exchanged a few words which neither of them understood while they were speaking them, nor remembered afterwards. They both spoke in a low voice and the impression produced upon the many curious eyes that watched them was that they were on very good terms, though slightly embarrassed by the consciousness that they were being so much talked of.
At the dinner-table George found himself next to Grace. For some time he talked with his neighbour on his other side, then turned and inquired when Grace and her sister were going out of town, and what they intended to do during the summer. She, on her part, while answering his questions, looked at him with an air of cold and scornful surprise. Presently there was a brief burst of general conversation. Under cover of the numerous voices Grace asked a direct question.
“What do you mean by telling such a story as every one is repeating about my sister?” she asked.
George’s eyes gleamed angrily for a moment and his answer came sharply and quickly.
“You would do better to ask that of yourself—or of Miss Fearing. I have said nothing.”