CHAPTER VII.
AN INVITATION.
Jacinth was quick of observation. They had not been many minutes seated at table before it struck her that Frances was unusually silent—or rather, absent and preoccupied, for the mere fact of her not speaking much in her aunt's presence was not remarkable.
She glanced at Frances once or twice inquiringly, then she tried to draw her into the conversation, but only succeeded in extracting monosyllables in reply. Still her sister did not look depressed, certainly not cross; it was much more as if her thoughts were elsewhere.
'What are you dreaming about, Frances?' said Jacinth at last with a touch of sharpness. 'Are you very tired?'
'Did you not enjoy yourself this afternoon?' asked Miss Mildmay, following suit.
Frances started, and pulled herself together.
'Oh yes,' she said, 'very much. I never enjoyed myself more. I was only—oh, I was only thinking of things.'
'What sort of things?' asked her aunt good-humouredly. 'Had you much grave and learned discussion at Ivy Lodge?'
Frances reddened a little.