“Who was that person? Do you know her by sight?”
“I have an idea that she is Mrs Worthing’s maid,” he said. He wished Philippa had let the thing drop; its vulgarity spoilt the idyllic charm of the scene, and the day, and his new thoughts about herself. “I remember her teasing me to let the woman come—she was so useful at helping on these occasions, and so on. And she was walking with Lady Mary’s servants. But what does it matter? I shall take care that you are not annoyed again. How could she have imagined you any one but yourself?” with a rather forced laugh.
“Oh,” said the girl, reassuringly, “at the first glance one does not notice—dress, and that kind of thing. My face must have reminded her of some one she knew. Do not say anything about it to any one, I beg of you; it would be making the maid of far too much consequence, I assure you. And if her mistress is a friend of yours, it might—might possibly lead to some annoyance.”
“You are far too good-natured,” he replied. “However, I daresay you are right. It would be making the woman of too much consequence to speak of it to Mrs Worthing. Not that the Worthings are special friends of mine. I had to ask them, though we should have been more the sort of party I wished without them. But I agree with Michael about Mrs Worthing.”
Another shock for Philippa; somehow this was the first time that his cousin’s name had been mentioned to her by Mr Gresham. And after all, what did it matter? She must get accustomed to hearing Michael Gresham spoken of, even perhaps to meeting him if—if her present companion were to become a permanent friend. It was only unlucky just now, startling, to have that name brought on the tapis when she was already upset and discomposed. And to-day, when she had meant to be so happy!
But she must not be so weak-minded. And with this determination—impelled too, half unconsciously, by the strange fascination of a subject she would fain avoid—she looked up at Mr Gresham inquiringly.
“Michael?” she repeated.
He smiled.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said. “You don’t know the family archangel? I have got into the habit of imagining that you know all that your sister does about—about myself and my home interests. Not that old Michael is exactly a part of my home, except by old association. He is my cousin. We were brought up together, more or less, but there is not any very great amount of common ground for us to meet on. He is—ah, well, a very good fellow in his own way, but rather a bear—doesn’t shine in society—in fact, it and he know very little about each other.”
“Why so?” asked Philippa. She was nervously anxious not to seem to avoid the subject of the younger Gresham, and even more so to prove to herself that she had completely mastered her uneasiness. And she was not free from curiosity about Michael, both as to himself and as to the light in which Bernard regarded him. “Are you joking,” she went on, “when you call him ‘the family archangel,’ or do you really mean that he is very, remarkably good?”