The Englishman turned to Miss Challoner. “You bespoke supper, I believe. I shall be honoured by your presence at my own table. Boisson will show you the way to my private salle.”
Miss Challoner hesitated. “A bowl of soup in my chamber, sir — ”
“You will find it more entertaining to sup with me,” he said. “Let me allay your qualms by informing you that I have the pleasure of your grandfather’s acquaintance.”
Miss Challoner grew rather pale. “My grandfather?” she said quickly.
“Certainly. You said, I think, that your name is Challoner. I have known Sir Giles any time these forty years. Permit me to tell you that you have a great look of him.”
In face of this piece of information Miss Challoner abandoned her first impulse to disclaim all relationship with Sir Giles. She stood feeling remarkably foolish, and looking rather worried.
The gentleman smiled faintly. “Very wise,” he commented, with uncanny perspicacity. “I should never believe that you were not his granddaughter. May I suggest that you follow this worthy female upstairs? You will join me at your convenience.”
Miss Challoner had to laugh. “Very well, sir,” she said, and curtsied, and went off in the wake of the landlady.
She was allotted what she guessed to be one of the best chambers, and a serving-maid brought her water in a brass can. She emptied her reticule on to the dressing-table, and somewhat ruefully inspected the collection thus displayed. Luckily she had slipped a clean tucker into it, and when carefully arranged round her shoulders this concealed the tear in her gown. She combed out her hair, and dressed it again, washed her face and hands, and went downstairs to the hall.
The presence of a countryman had been providential, but that he should be acquainted with her grandfather, and knew her identity, was a calamity. Miss Challoner had no idea what she was going to say to him, but some explanation was clearly called for.