Colonel St Quentin pushed back his chair from the table where stood his untasted breakfast.
“I suppose so,” he said; “but—you will think me very foolish Maddie, but this has completely unhinged me. I can’t eat—I will go to my own room, I think.”
“Oh, papa,” Miss St Quentin was beginning in a tone of remonstrance, when Ella interrupted her.
“Is anything the matter?” she exclaimed. “You—you seem so strange, Madelene, you and papa. If it is anything I am not to hear about, I would rather go away: I have nearly finished my breakfast.”
Her little pale face looked almost as if she were going to cry. Madelene seemed as if she did not know what to say or do.
“It—it is nothing wrong,” she said hastily, “but still not anything I can quite explain to you just yet.”
“It is something about Ermine. I know that,” said Ella. “But if you don’t mind I would rather go, and then you and papa can talk freely.”
And almost before they quite understood what she was saying, she had gone.
“Has she had her breakfast really?” said her father, glancing at Ella’s plate. “Yes, I suppose so. But she isn’t looking well, Madelene. I think we must have Felton to look at her. However—just for the moment I can only think of Ermine. Give me that letter again. Philip will be able to tell us more. What crotchet has Ermine got in her head about anything of the kind being ‘impossible’? I’m not such a selfish old tyrant as all that, surely! And if I were—while I have you, Maddie—”
“Yes, papa,” Miss St Quentin replied, though her own lip quivered a little. “Yes, with me, I hope you would never feel deserted. And this is what we must impress upon Ermine, if—as seems the case—everything else is favourable and desirable.”