“You were walking with her just now.”
“Really, Miss Peel, you are the most extraordinary—”
But Maggie Oliphant’s clear, sweet voice interrupted them.
“Had we not better come into the house?” she said. “The door has been open for quite half a minute.”
Poor Prissie rushed in first, covered with shame; Miss Field hastened after, to bear her company; and Hammond and Maggie brought up the rear.
Chapter Twenty.
A Painter.
The Marshalls were always at home to their friends on Friday afternoons, and there were already several guests in the beautiful, quaint old drawing-room when the quartette entered. Mrs Marshall, her white hair looking lovely under her soft lace cap, came forward to meet her visitors. Her kind eyes looked with appreciation and welcome at one and all. Blushing and shamefaced Prissie received a pleasant word of greeting, which seemed in some wonderful way to steady her nerves. Hammond and Maggie were received as special and very dear friends, and Helen Marshall, the old lady’s pretty grand-daughter, rushed forward to embrace her particular friend, Constance Field.