“Nonsense, Maddie,” she said. “Why must you always be so gloomy about everything? You really needn’t be so cross to me when I’ve given in so sweetly about going to the Marchants—all to please you, you know.”
And Madelene could not resist her kiss, nor resent the whispered warning at the last moment—not to spoil Ella’s evening by looking severe.
Ella was scarcely in a humour to have been much depressed or impressed by her sister’s looks. Her spirits rose with every yard that separated them from Coombesthorpe, and when they arrived at Cheynesacre and were received in the drawing-room by her godmother the girl flew into her arms as if she had been a caged bird escaping at last from its gloomy prison into sunshine and brightness.
“Oh, dear godmother, dear, dear godmother,” she whispered, “I am so pleased to be with you again.” It was impossible not to be touched; she was so genuinely sweet, and she looked so pretty. There were tears in the old lady’s eyes, as she kissed her god-daughter.
“My dear little Ella,” she said. “Then you have forgiven me?”
“Forgiven you?” Ella repeated; “what for, dear godmother?”
“For the trick I played you, or helped to play you and Philip here the other evening? Philip has forgiven me—it really was very funny.”
Sir Philip came forward from the other side of the screen where he had been talking to Madelene. “Ella has done better than I, granny,” he said, as he shook hands with her. “She has not only forgiven but forgotten, it appears.”
Ella started a little when he spoke of her by name. It was still difficult to disassociate him from the attractive “stranger” of the Manor ball.
“I think it was rather too bad of them all,” she said, “but I couldn’t have been vexed with godmother when it was all her doing—all the deliciousness of going to the dance at all.”