Having managed to detach cousin John momentarily from the Abercarnes, who were, in truth, glad of a little relief from his attentions, Mrs. Graham-Shute asked her cousin to get her a cup of tea. He complied, and would immediately have escaped, but she detained him by bringing her fan down with a sharp snap on his arm.
“One moment, John; I think you might spare me one moment, especially as I want to talk to you about your favourites,” she said, rather snappishly, as he reluctantly waited.
“Oh, if you’re going on again about them,” said John shortly, “you may save yourself the trouble. They are my favourites, and there’s an end of it.”
“Quite so,” rejoined his cousin sweetly. “It’s because of the great interest I know you take in them, that I want to speak to you. Who is this young fellow that Miss Abercarne is going to marry?”
This question, serenely put, though not without a strong touch of what a woman would have recognised as malice, had the desired effect of startling John Bradfield, as well as of making him very angry.
“What—what do you mean?” he asked shortly. “I’ve heard nothing about it. It’s some d—d nonsense somebody’s put into your head, and there’s not a word of truth in it, I’ll be bound.”
“My dear John, don’t be angry. Perhaps there is nothing; very likely not. If there had been anything in it, no doubt you would have heard. But as there’s no doubt she’s carrying on a correspondence with someone who does not send his letters by post, I naturally thought that it must be with someone she thought about rather seriously. I daresay I was wrong. So sorry if I’ve made any mischief!” she added, as if in sudden surprise at the effect of her words. “But really, you know, girls shouldn’t do these things, now should they?”
Loud voices were the rule in the house, but Mrs. Graham-Shute was startled by the loudness of her cousin’s angry reply:
“It isn’t true!” roared he. “It isn’t true. It’s one of your infernal concoctions of a spiteful woman. I’ll go and ask her.”