Nothing further had been heard or said about Ermine’s return, but on Monday morning Miss St Quentin exclaimed eagerly, as she opened the letter-bag, which she was accustomed to do if she was down before her father.
“Ah, a letter from Ermine at last! That’s right. Ella, dear, please put these letters on papa’s plate. Dear me—there is one with a Shenewood envelope for him—whom can that be from? And—that’s Philip’s writing. I wonder why he has not been over to see us?”
Almost as she spoke her father entered the room. He kissed his daughters, making some slight remark as he did so on the extreme coldness of the morning.
“Is that what is making you look so pale, Ella?” he added as he caught sight of her face.
Again Ella forced a smile and murmured something vaguely about disliking cold. But her father scarcely heard her reply. He had opened his letters and was immersed in them, unsuspicious of the keen attention with which his youngest daughter was observing him. His face grew grave, very grave indeed as he read the one from Shenewood Park which Madelene had remarked upon: a slight look of relief overspread it as he glanced at the shorter letter from Sir Philip Cheynes.
“Madelene,” he said hastily, handing both to her across the table, “did you know anything of this?” and Ella saw that the fingers which held out the letters trembled.
Miss St Quentin read both quickly. Then she looked at her father.
“No,” she said, “nothing at all.”
Her voice was grave and she had grown rather pale, still to Ella it seemed that her evident emotion was not caused by distress.
“Philip is coming over himself, I see,” Madelene said. “I am glad of that. Talking is so much better than writing.”