"Are you telling me the truth?"
The girl bridled, staring straight before her with indignant evasiveness of look.
"My dear aunt! How can you ask me such a question? Of course I may have misunderstood Lord Dymchurch, but, if it hadn't been for what you have once or twice said to me, I really shouldn't ever have supposed that he meant anything. He talks in such a rambling way—"
She grew voluble. Lady Ogram listened awhile, then cut her short.
"Very well. There has been some queer sort of mistake, that's plain. I should like to know what Lord Dymchurch means. Why couldn't he see me, like an honest man? It's very extraordinary, this running away before breakfast, saying good-bye to nobody."
She mused stormily, her eye ever and again turning upon the girl.
"Look here, May; do you think Constance knows anything about it?"
"I really can't say—I don't see how—"
"It was she that brought me his letter. Do you think he spoke to her?"
"About me?" exclaimed May, uneasily. "Oh! I don't think so—I never noticed that they were friendly."