“Yes.”
“It was a little strange. I observed it myself. She seemed distant with him, and he with her. Have you any idea of the reason, Nelly?”
“Not in the least. Only I fancy something must have come between them.”
“The usual thing; lover’s tiff I suppose. Ah, I’ve seen a great many of them in my time. How silly men and women are—when they’re in love. Are they not, Mr Musgrave?”
The curate answers in the affirmative but somewhat confusedly, and blushing, as he imagines it may be a thrust at himself.
“Of the two,” proceeds the garrulous spinster, “men are the most foolish under such circumstances. No!” she exclaims, contradicting herself, “when I think of it, no. I’ve seen ladies, high-born, and with titles, half beside themselves about Beau Brummel, distractedly quarrelling as to which should dance with him! Beau Brummel, who ended his days in a low lodging-house! Ha! ha! ha!”
There is a soupçon of spleen in the tone of Miss Linton’s laughter, as though she had herself once felt the fascinations of the redoubtable dandy.
“What could be more ridiculous?” she goes on. “When one looks back upon it, the very extreme of absurdity. Well;” taking hold of the cafetière, and filling her cup, “it’s time for that young lady to be downstairs. If she hasn’t been lying awake ever since the people went off, she should be well rested by this. Bless me,” glancing at the ormolu dial over the mantel, “it’s after eleven, Clarisse,” to the femme de chambre, still in attendance, “tell Miss Wynn’s maid to say to her mistress we’re waiting breakfast. Veet, tray veet!” she concludes, with a pronunciation and accent anything but Parisian.
Off trips the French demoiselle, and upstairs; almost instantly returning down them, Miss Wynn’s maid along, with a report which startles the trio at the breakfast table. It is the English damsel who delivers it in the vernacular.
“Miss Gwen isn’t in her room; nor hasn’t been all the night long.”