“And your cheek, Miss Ella,” interrupted Hetty, understanding the gesture though not the words. “It’s a deal smuttier nor your hands.”
Ella’s face grew still more scarlet.
“Oh, you horrid little girl,” she exclaimed, “why didn’t you tell me?” and lifting a corner of the apron she began to rub her cheek so indignantly that Sir Philip could scarcely keep his countenance. But his bewilderment and curiosity overcame his amusement.
“Then,” he said, for though Hetty’s name for the young lady had vaguely caught his ear, it had not as yet awakened any association, “then I am to conclude you are Miss Wyndham?”
“No,” said Ella sharply, for the consciousness of the smut on her face had quite upset her temper, “I’m not, and I never said I was; and why you chose to call me by a name that was not mine I am sure I don’t know. I didn’t know yours, and I don’t now, and you wouldn’t tell it me, but for all that I didn’t call you by an imaginary one.”
Sir Philip looked rather taken aback.
“When I had the honour of being introduced to you,” he said stiffly, “I think I was told your name was Wyndham?”
“I am not responsible for other people’s stupidity,” said Ella. “I have no objection to your knowing who I am. I—”
But at this moment little Hetty gave her a tug. “There’s daddy a coming, Miss Ella,” she said. “I see him over there in the long path. May I run to tell him what mammy said?” and hardly waiting for permission, the child set off.