“Oh, no,” said Beatrice.
“Oh, yes; I should,” said Mrs. Mowbray. “I will do better, however, for I will make my visit a short one. The fact is, Miss Avon, I have heard so much about you during the past few months from—from—several people, I could not help being interested in you—greatly interested indeed.”
“That was very kind of you,” said Beatrice, wondering what further revelation was coming.
“I was so interested in you that I felt I must call upon you. I used to know Lady Innisfail long ago.”
“Was it Lady Innisfail who caused you to be interested in me?” asked Beatrice.
“Well, not exactly,” said Mrs. Mowbray; “but it was some of Lady Innisfail’s guests—some who were entertained at the Irish Castle. I used also to know Mrs. Lampson—Lord Fotheringay’s daughter. How terrible the blow of his death must have been to her and her brother.”
“I have not seen Mrs. Lampson since,” said Beatrice, “but—”
“You have seen the present Lord Fotheringay? Will you let me say that I hope you have seen him—that you still see him? Do not think me a gossiping, prying old woman—I suppose I am old enough to be your mother—for expressing the hope that you will see him, Miss Avon. He is the best man on earth.”
Beatrice had flushed the first moment that her visitor had alluded to Harold. Her flush had not decreased.
“I must decline to speak with you on the subject of Lord Fotheringay, Mrs. Mowbray,” said Beatrice, somewhat unequally.