“Hadn’t I better invite Mr. Sefton to meet them?” inquired Maud, with a malicious little laugh.
“Why?”
“Because he is said to be running after Miss Marchant. I only hope pour le bon motif.”
“However shady a customer Colonel Marchant may be, I shouldn’t think any man would dare to approach his daughter with a bad motive,” said Vansittart, sternly.
“The Colonel encourages him, I am told; so I suppose it is all right.”
“You are told,” cried Vansittart, scornfully. “What is this cloud of unseen witnesses which compasses about village life so that what a man owes, what a man eats, what a man thinks and purposes are common topics of conversation for people who never enter his house? It is petty to childishness, all this twaddle about Colonel Marchant and his daughters.”
“Jack, Jack!” cried Maud, shaking her head. “I can only say I am sorry for you. And now run away, for goodness’ sake. We shall both be late for dinner. I shall only have time to throw on a tea-gown.”
A footman brought Lady Hartley a letter at half-past nine that evening. Vansittart crossed the drawing-room to hear the result of the invitation.
“Dear Lady Hartley,
“It is too good of you to ask us to luncheon after skating, and I know it will be a treat for my young sisters to see your beautiful house, so I am pleased to accept your kind invitation for the two youngest and myself. Sophy and Jenny beg to thank you for including them, but they cannot think of inflicting so large a party as five upon you.