"There are too many little birds in S—shire," Bill Arkcoll remarked in a penetrating undertone. "Pity the cold hasn't killed some of them."
Fenella reddened and turned pale by turns.
"Oh, I can't!" she said quickly. She flashed a quick appeal across the table for her cousin's sympathy, but Leslie kept her eyes on her plate. Leslie's manner had been strange lately.
"Oh, but you must—you really must! Talents oughtn't to be hid. Ought they, Lord Lulford?"
The bearded widower, who had been engaged in demolishing the private reputation of a Liberal leader, turned from the horrified face of the great lady he had taken in to dinner.
"What is it?"
"We're asking your niece to dance here some night before she goes back. She thinks it wouldn't be quite—quite, you know——"
Lulford tugged at his thick beard. "I don't know why you shouldn't, Fenella. We're almost a family party."
"Don't worry the child," Lady Warrener put in, noticing her distress. She had forgotten much that was American, but not the tradition that kindness and consideration are budding womanhood's due.
"Be a sport, Flash," said Jack Barbour, cheerily but unhelpfully.