“Daudet says there is one effulgent spot in every man’s life—one supreme moment when he stands on the mountain-top of fortune and of bliss, and from which all the rest of his existence is a gradual descent. I wonder whether that afternoon will be your effulgent spot, Miss Ransome?” said Mrs. Hillersdon laughingly.
“It will—it must. To superintend two great urns of tea and coffee—almost as nice as those delicious beer-engines one sees at Salisbury Station—to charge people a shilling for a small cup of tea, and sixpence for a penny sponge-cake. What splendid fun!”
“Will you help us, Mr. Castleton?” asked the curate, who was not good at names.
“Mrs. Greswold has only to command me. I am in all things her slave.”
“Then she will command you—she does command you,” cried the curate.
“If you will be so very kind—” began Mildred.
“I am only too proud to obey you,” answered Castellani, with more earnestness than the occasion required, drawing a little nearer to Mildred as he spoke; “only too glad of an excuse to return to this house.”
Mildred looked at him with a half-frightened expression, and then glanced at Pamela. Did he mean mischief of some kind? Was this the beginning of an insidious pursuit of that frank girl, whose fortune was quite enough to tempt the casual adventurer?
“Of all men I have ever seen he is the last to whom I would entrust a girl’s fate,” thought Mildred, determined to be very much on her guard against the blandishments of César Castellani.
She took the very worst means to ward off danger. She made the direful mistake of warning the girl against the possible pursuer that very evening when they were sitting alone after dinner.