Mary crossed the big room and stood at the other side of the knee-hole table facing him.
"I sent for you," Mr Ffolliot began slowly, and paused. Angry as he was, he found a moment in which to feel satisfaction at her pure colouring . . . "to make enquiries" he continued, "as to your late companion. Who is that exceedingly muddy person with whom you were talking in the front drive a few minutes ago?"
Yes; her colouring was certainly admirable. A good healthy blush sweeping over the white forehead till it reached the pretty growth of hair round the temples and dying away as rapidly as it had arisen, was quite a forgivable weakness in a young girl.
"I believe," said Mary cautiously, "that he is Mr Gallup, the new
Liberal candidate."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, father. He told me his name, but it was Grantly who thought he was that one."
"And may I ask what reason Mr Gallup had for imparting his name to you—did no one introduce him?"
"No, father."
"Well, how did the man come to speak to you?" Mr Ffolliot demanded, irritably. "You must see that the matter requires explanation."
"He was lost," Mary said mournfully, "and so I showed him the way."