"Don't you think Lady Mary was enraptured to see me this morning, Mr. Cottrell?" inquired Sylla Chipchase, as they lingered for a minute or two behind the rest.
"Quite sure of it," was the reply, and the speaker's keen dark eyes twinkled with fun as he spoke; "and what is more, if my ears do not deceive me, we shall carry back to the Grange a little bit of intelligence that I am quite sure will gladden the heart of our hostess."
"What is that?" inquired Sylla.
"Don't you know? No; how could you possibly, considering that you are only now about to make your début in the London world? You must know, then, that your aunt Mrs. Wriothesley is the object of Lady Mary's particular detestation."
"But how came that about? What was the cause of their quarrel? I am sure my aunt is a very charming woman."
"An assertion that I most cordially endorse, and so would all the men of her acquaintance, and most of the women; but when you come to ladies in society, there are wheels within wheels, you see. Your aunt and Lady Mary have been rivals."
"Nonsense, Mr. Cottrell!" exclaimed Sylla; "why, my aunt is at least fifteen years younger than Lady Mary. She was not only married, but all her children born, before my aunt Mrs. Wriothesley came out."
"True, Miss Sylla; but there are rivalries of many kinds, as you will find as you grow older. I can only repeat what I have said before—Mrs. Wriothesley and Lady Mary have been rivals."
"Please explain," said Sylla in her most coaxing tones.
"No, no," rejoined Cottrell, laughing; "you are quick enough, and can afford to trust to your own ears and your own observation when you reach town."