"What! That was Mr. Gaunt? Was it indeed? Oh, then, perhaps that accounts for it!"
"Accounts for what?"
"That he looked as if he expected me to bow to him or speak to him—that he looked as if he thought he knew me! I am very like you, mamma, am I not? Everybody says so."
"He saw the likeness, and remembers the meeting," muttered Mrs. Mynors, crumpling up her handkerchief into a tight ball with vindictive fingers. "I suppose you thought he admired you very much?"
"Not at all," returned the girl at once. "I thought he looked angry or offended. He—he followed us about rather persistently, until Mims and I felt uncomfortable. We went and sat outside, at the top of the stairs, to get out of his way."
"Humph! He did admire you, though, for all that! At least, he wants to marry you!"
"Wha-a-t!" Virginia was guilty of vulgarity in her amused amaze. "Oh, mummie, don't be silly! He meant you. You have made a mistake."
Her mother gave a short, bitter laugh. "I am passée," she said through her teeth. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have sent you as my ambassador! You might have been able to come to terms. Tell me," she cried sharply, grasping her daughter's wrist, "tell me what you thought of him? Sombre, interesting—eh? The strong silent man—that kind of thing? You must have used your eyes in a way that I am sure I never taught you."
Virginia stood transfixed. She felt as if she were talking to a stranger. This was a mother she had never seen. "Oh, mother, dear, what can you mean?" she remonstrated, in low, hurt tones.
With another mirthless laugh, Mrs. Mynors flung back upon her sofa pillows. She began to pour tea into a cup, and her hand shook.