“Oh, not much!” replied Mildred easily. “Something about finding out what Lady Sarah was like when you went away and she was left in charge. I said you were not going away, and she muttered something about hearing the servants talk. I really forget what it was.”

Mrs Faucit wrinkled her brows, and looked perturbed. How could Cécile know of plans which had only been discussed between husband and wife? Could it be that the Dean, in his carelessness, had left a letter on the subject lying about, and that Cécile had been unprincipled enough to read the contents? It was the only explanation of which she could think, and it was sufficiently unpleasant to send her downstairs to interview Lady Sarah with a fresh weight on her mind.

“Will you be kind enough to take care of the keys for me, Sarah?” she asked. “There are a good many valuables in the chest in the strong-room, and I should feel more comfortable if you were in charge. James will apply to you for anything he needs, and pray do not hesitate to give him your instructions in return. By the way, Mildred has just been telling me that Cécile spoke to her some days ago of our leaving home! I can’t imagine how she can have known about it. I am afraid I have never got over my first dislike to that woman, Sarah. I don’t like her prying ways, and I don’t like her manner to you. You are not given to spoiling your servants, but it seems to me that you are allowing Cécile to get the upper hand; and if that goes on, it will be a great mistake. She does not impress me as a woman whom it is safe to indulge!”

Lady Sarah gave an impatient toss to her head.

“Oh, my dear Evelyn!” she cried; “it is easy for you to talk. You have your husband and children, and are not dependent upon a servant. I am! Cécile has it in her power to make my comfort or misery, and she is a capable woman, who understands my requirements. I have suffered so much from inefficient maids that I cannot afford to quarrel with one who really suits me!”

She evidently did not appreciate her friend’s interference, and Mrs Faucit realised that there was no more to be said on the subject.


Chapter Eleven.

The Picnic at Last.