“Oh, she often looks like that,” said Dacre consolingly, “I believe she is mad—she is dying to squeal and screech and yet she is as quiet as an old rat, I believe myself one good roar would do her good.”
Mary was a sensible body and knew when a thing was beyond her powers, she said nothing but went down and intercepted Mrs. Fellowes on her way to the drawing-room and carried her off.
“Is Gwen well, Mary?” she asked, as they went upstairs.
“Eats and sleeps well, ma’am, but she has an over-active brain, ma’am, I should say, and if ’tis, ’tis only God can help her,” whispered Mary solemnly.
Gwen had recovered by this time and she and Dacre were engaged in a wrangle, stormy on Dacre’s side, sarcastic and calm on Gwen’s. At sight of Mrs. Fellowes they left off.
“Oh you dear, you dear!” cried Gwen sweeping up to her, and taking her kiss with a sort of gasp, “we feel awful, as if some new horror was coming on.”
“You’ll stand by us, Mrs. Fellowes? Do you think they might repent of Eton? Gwen gets mad when I say that, but, you know, no fellow knows what they’ll do next,” he added plaintively.
“Dacre, I wonder if you know how horribly impertinent you are? If you belonged to me and spoke of me like that, I’d cut you for a week!”
“Oh, but you’re quite different, of course no one would speak of you like that—Oh, come in!”
A new footman, a tall awkward creature, who found his brains softening in this astonishing family, had been giving a succession of small knocks for the last five minutes, at last he supplemented them by a choking cough.