“Just imagine him fighting with Frank, and about Angèle Saumarez, too.”
“You may take it from me that Martin behaved very well indeed. Angèle is a little vixen, a badly behaved, spoilt child, I fear. Young Beckett-Smythe is a booby who encouraged her wilfulness. Martin thrashed him. It would have been far better had Martin not been there at all; but if he were my son I should still be proud of him.”
The girl’s face brightened visibly. There was manifest relief in her voice.
“I am so glad we’ve had this talk,” she cried. “I—like Martin, and it did seem so odd that he should have been fighting about Angèle.”
“He knew she ought to be at home, and told her so. Frank interfered, and got punched for his pains. It served him right.”
She helped herself to a large slice of tea-cake.
“I don’t know why I was so silly as to cry—but—I really did think Mrs. Pickering was in awful trouble.”
The vicar laid the paper aside. His innocent-minded daughter had not even given a thought to the vital issues of the affair. He breathed freely, and told her of the funeral. Nevertheless, he had failed to fathom the cause of those red eyes.
A servant clearing the tea-table bethought her of a note which came for Mr. Herbert some two hours earlier. She brought it from the study. It was from Mrs. Saumarez, inviting him and Elsie to luncheon next day.