“Miss Townsend likes him immensely,” Ivy replied. “I have only met him twice—very casually.”
“Cracked, isn’t she?” Hamilton said pleasantly. “Haven’t met her, though, myself.”
“And are never likely to,” Sir Charles and his cousin said promptly—to themselves.
“But, by George, he sent you flowers though, didn’t he? I heard so. I’d forgotten that. Perhaps he will call when you are at home after all, Lady Snow. I’d live in hopes,” Hamilton said in a tone that made Sir Charles Snow’s right foot tingle. But Emma Snow had little attention to waste on any one but Ivy now.
“Sent you flowers, Ivy?” she cried excitedly. “You never told me. When?”
“I don’t put every nothing in my diary,” Ivy said indifferently, not troubling to lift her eyes from her plate.
“But did he?” Emma Snow insisted.
Her cousin smiled coldly. She was furious at Reginald Hamilton; she didn’t know why.
“Did Mr. Sên send you flowers, Ivy?” Sir Charles asked.
The girl looked up then, looked at him in surprise. The question was unlike Charles Snow.