“Well, I personally don’t regard her as a desirable companion for you. But there is no need to give offense, and it will not hurt you to meet her for an hour or so. Your friend Martin is coming, too.”
“Oh,” she cried, “that makes a great difference.”
Her father laughed.
“Between you, you will surely manage to keep Angèle out of mischief. And, now, my pet, what do you say to an hour with La Fontaine, while I attend to some correspondence? Where are my pupils?”
“They went for a long walk. Mr. Gregory said they would not be home until dinner-time.”
Next morning, for a wonder, the clouds broke, and an autumn sun strove to cheer the scarred and drowned earth. Mrs. Saumarez met her guests with the unobtrusive charm of a skilled hostess. Angèle, demure and shrinking, extended her hand to Elsie with a shy civility that was an exact copy of Elsie’s own attitude.
During luncheon she behaved so charmingly and spoke with such sweet naturalness when any question was addressed to her that Mr. Herbert found himself steadily recasting his unfavorable opinion.
The conversation steered clear of any reference to the inquest. Mrs. Saumarez was a widely read and traveled woman, and versed in the art of agreeable small talk.
Once, in referring to Angèle, she said smilingly:
“I have been somewhat selfish in keeping her with me always. But, now, I have decided that she must go to school. I’ll winter in Brighton, with that object in view.”