Betty's thoughts, however, had once more slipped away from her immediate neighbours, and were pursuing more exciting matters,—the state of Madeleine Penley's heart and the wiles of that witch-woman in London, who must be somehow plucked like a burr from Ancoats's skirts,—when Marcella entered the room, hat in hand.
"Whither away, fair lady?" cried Betty; "come and talk to me."
"Hallin will be in the river," said Marcella, irresolute.
"If he is, Sir George will fish him out. Besides, I believe Sir George and Ancoats have gone for a walk, and Hallin with them. I heard Maxwell tell Hallin he might go."
Marcella turned an uncertain look upon Lord Fontenoy and Mrs. Allison. But directly Maxwell's wife entered the room, Maxwell's enemy had dropped his talk of political affairs, and he was now showing Sir Philip a portfolio of Mrs. Allison's sketches, with a subdued ardour that brought a kindly smile to Marcella's lip. In general, Fontenoy had neither eye nor ear for anything artistic; moreover, he spoke barbarous French, and no other European tongue; while of letters he had scarcely a tincture. But when it became a question of Mrs. Allison's accomplishments, her drawing, her embroidery, still more her admirable French and excellent Italian, the books she had read, and the poetry she knew by heart, he was all appreciation—one might almost say, all feeling. It was Cymon and Iphigenia in a modern and middle-aged key.
His mien he fashioned and his tongue he filed.
And did a blunder come, Iphigenia gently and deftly put it to rights.
"Where is Madeleine?" asked Betty, as Marcella approached her sofa.
"Walking with Lord Naseby, I think."
"What was the matter on the way from church?" asked Betty, in a low voice, raising her face to her friend.