"And your Aunt Alice—who's always worshipped you? Why, she's just miserable about you!"
"She says exactly what you and Uncle Richard tell her to say—she always has! Well, I don't know about Paris, mamma—I'll think about it. If you and Sarah will just let me be, I'll take Roddy for a stroll, and then after tea I'll tell you what I'll do." And, turning, she beckoned to a fine collie lazily sunning himself on the drawing-room steps, and he sprang up, gambolling about her.
"Promise you won't meet that man!" said Lady Fox-Wilton, in agitation.
"I believe he went up to Scotland to-day," said Hester, laughing. "I haven't the smallest intention of meeting him. Come, Roddy!"
The eyes of the two met—in those of the older woman, impatience, a kind of cold exasperation; in Hester's, defiance. It was a strange look to pass between a mother and daughter. Hester turned away, and then paused:
"Oh, by the way, mamma—where are you going?"
Lady Fox-Wilton hesitated unaccountedly.
"Why do you ask?"
Hester opened her eyes.
"Why shouldn't I? Is it a secret? I wanted you to tell Aunt Alice something if you were going that way."