“Indeed,” said his companion, “I must have misunderstood Fred then. But he was quite clear about it—said that the youngest Miss St Quentin was tremendously admired, bids fair in fact to, so to speak, outshine her sisters. Of course there is the charm of novelty in her case; she is quite a stranger in this neighbourhood.”
Philip’s brow contracted. Old Brander meant no harm, but his remarks struck the young man as slightly free. Besides—what utter nonsense he was talking!
“There is some absurd mistake,” he remarked rather stiffly. “I don’t suppose you misunderstood your nephew, but he has got hold of some nonsense. The youngest Miss St Quentin is still to all intents and purposes a child; there could have been no question of her being at the Manor last night.”
In his turn Mr Brander looked surprised.
“Fred must be more exact in his statements,” he said; “he must have mistaken some one else.”
And then as Philip proceeded to lay before him the papers and explanations with which Lady Cheynes had furnished him, the conversation took the turn of business and no more was said about Mrs Belvoir’s dance.
But a feeling of increasing mystification was left in Philip’s mind.
“I cannot understand my grandmother’s sudden freak last night,” he thought. “It is sure to make people gossip, especially if any one noticed that she and I were never together the whole evening. The next report will be that she and I have quarrelled—it would be no more absurd than that Fred Brander’s story about Ella St Quentin having been the belle of the Manor ball!”
Ella was at that moment dressing as quickly as she could, having slept till long after her usual breakfast hour and only awakened to be told that as her godmother wished to drive over to Coombesthorpe for luncheon, she had no time to spare. So her thick grey linsey frock was donned again, and the fluffy masses of white tulle, slightly “tashed,” as the Scotch say, but snowily pretty still, reconsigned by Jones’s careful hands to the tray of Ella’s large basket trunk.
“It’s very little the worse,” said the maid. “If you just get Millannie to iron it out the next time you want to wear it, Miss, it’ll be as good as ever. It is Millannie to do it, I suppose? You haven’t a maid of your own yet.”