“Why did you not tell me so? how is it that you—You did it on purpose!”
Mrs. Colonibel was in a temper. Sitting at the head of her own table, apparently at peace with herself and all mankind, she had flown into a fit of wrath about something which no one in the least understood.
Vivienne disdained to reply to her.
Mrs. Colonibel half rose from the table, her face crimson, her whole frame shaking. “Stanton,” she cried, “she”—pointing a trembling finger at Vivienne—"has deliberately insulted me in your house; I will not endure it," and bursting into a flood of tears she hurried from the room.
An extremely awkward silence followed Mrs. Colonibel’s departure, which was broken at last by a laugh from Judy.
“Don’t be shocked, Miss Delavigne,” she said; “mamma has been known to do that before. She is tired I think. What is the trouble, anyway? Fortunately the servants have left the room. Pass me the nuts, Val.”
Vivienne’s black eyes were resting on her plate, and she did not speak until she found that every one at the table was waiting for her answer.
“Mrs. Macartney called on me to-day,” she said, addressing Mr. Armour. “I sat with her in the front drawing room. Mrs. Colonibel passed us, but so quickly that I did not introduce her. Later on she gave me a cup of tea for Mrs. Macartney. That is all,” and Vivienne half shrugged her shoulders and closed her lips.
“Macartney, did you say?” exclaimed Mr. Valentine. “Not Geoffrey Macartney’s mother?”
“Yes.”