The door above closed very, very gently, and two ladies slipped quietly back into the up-stairs passage from which it opened. They were Mrs Wentworth and Miss Forsyth. Imogen’s mother was smiling with a slightly self-conscious, slightly alarmed expression; Mabella was whispering eagerly.
“There now,” she said; “I am so glad you have seen for yourself. Wasn’t I clever?” Mrs Wentworth spoke half nervously.
“I hope you don’t think any one else has seen them?” she said. “I am so afraid of any gossip. You see, I have scarcely realised that Imogen is more than a child—a mere child. I am afraid I am not a very efficient chaperon as yet.”
“Oh, it’s all right. Major Winchester is discretion itself. I only wanted to give you ocular demonstration of his devotion. It is not to be wondered at; she did look irresistible when she glanced up at him just now, did she not? But you know he is usually so unimpressionable and high and mighty. Only be sure you never tell anybody that I made you peep. You promise, don’t you, dear Mrs Wentworth? I always feel as if you were a girl like myself, you know. I cannot take in that you are really the mother of a grown-up daughter.”
Mrs Wentworth beamed.
“Of course I will never betray you,” she said. “But she is so very young. I do feel so at a loss.”
“There is nothing to feel at a loss about,” said Mabella quickly. It would not have suited her at all for Mrs Wentworth to take others into her confidence. “Imogen is quite charming. You must just make up your mind that every man she comes across will be at her feet; she will have any number to choose from, and she can afford to be difficile.”
“Are you not too partial, dear Miss—?”
“You naughty woman,” said the girl, playfully laying her fingers on Mrs Wentworth’s lips, “what was it you promised? Miss Forsyth indeed!”
“Well then, dear Mabella, if you really wish it,” said Imogen’s mother; “are you not too partial?”