Sara proceeded to count her beads, lest one should be missing. But they were all there, and she tied them up in her handkerchief.
“Pensée,” she said, presently. “I will tell his name after all, because you have been so frank with me. The one I ... love is Beauclerk Reckage.” As she uttered this lie, she cast down her eyes and blushed to the very heart.
“Beauclerk!” exclaimed Pensée, in amazement. “Then there is some hope after all! There is, there must be! Beauclerk! He is engaged to Agnes Carillon, of course. But all the same....”
The conversation flagged. Lord Garrow, who had heard a distant murmuring but not their words, now, as their animation failed, came in.
“My little girl,” said he, “has been moping. I am very glad that you called ... very glad indeed. And Sara, my darling....”
“Yes, papa.”
“Have you asked Pensée the name of that extremely pretty song she sang for us when we all dined together at Lord Wight's? You remember the evening?”
But Sara, with a wail, fled away. Pensée caught a glimpse of her white, agonised countenance as she rushed past them, moaning, to her own room.
“This is dreadful,” said Lord Garrow, horribly annoyed—“dreadful!”
“It is indeed,” replied Lady Fitz Rewes gravely. “I suppose....”