“If that’s one of them dratted soldiers calling with his impudence, he’ll get sent off with a flea in his ear,” cried cook.
She bounced up angrily, and made her way to the door. It was no gallant Lancer in undress uniform and a cane under his arm, but Mr Paul Montaigne, whom cook at once knew by his description.
“The ladies in?” he said quietly.
“No, sir; which, please, they’ve gone to dine at Lady Littletown’s.”
“To be sure, yes, I had forgotten,” he said, smiling nicely—so cook put it—at the plump domestic. “But never mind, I will have a few minutes’ chat with Miss Clotilde and Miss Marie.”
“Which they’ve gone as well, sir.”
“To be sure, yes, I ought to have known,” said the visitor absently, “I ought to have remembered; and is Miss Ruth gone as well?”
“Oh no, sir; she’s in the schoolroom all alone!”
“Indeed!” said Mr Montaigne, raising his eyebrows. “Ah, well, I will not disturb—and yet, I don’t know; I am rather tired, and I will have a few minutes’ chat with her before I walk back.”
“Such a nice, mild-spoken kind of gentleman, though he had rather a papish look,” said cook; and she ushered the visitor into the empty drawing-room, going directly after to tell Ruth.