“Your father is not ill?”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I have scarcely seen him and Madelene this morning. They are expecting you, I know. I think—Is it not a pity to keep them waiting?”
Sir Philip had got off his horse by this time. He gave an impatient exclamation.
“Say plainly you don’t want to speak to me, and I will understand you, Ella,” he said. “There is no such tremendous hurry for my seeing your father and Madelene. I was in such spirits,” he went on reproachfully. “I don’t think I ever felt so happy in my life as I did this morning when I was riding over, and when I caught sight of you I thought it such a piece of luck—” his voice dropped a little, and his dark eyes looked quite pathetic—“and now you have spoilt it all. I don’t understand you this morning, Ella.”
“There is nothing to understand or not to understand,” said the girl, trying, though not very successfully to speak lightly. “I didn’t particularly want to speak to you, and I didn’t suppose you wanted particularly to speak to me. I—I heard a little this morning, though they don’t take me into their confidence. But I know they are waiting for you, and anxious to see you and talk it over.”
Philip looked at her curiously. She did not seem, as to him it would have appeared natural that she should do, either excited or much interested. Ermine however was not her own sister, he said to himself. Perhaps that made a difference, for that she was either self-absorbed or cold-hearted he could not for an instant believe.
“There is really no such tremendous hurry,” he repeated. “Uncle Marcus will be all the better for a little time in which to digest the news. They might as well have told you all about it. Madelene’s conscientiousness and caution run riot sometimes. I should like you to understand it all, and I am quite—”
“Oh no, no, please no!” she cried, putting her hands hastily to her ears. “I don’t want you to—I would much rather wait for Madelene to tell me. Please—please let me go now. I hope it will be all right, and you know I do care for Ermine, and I do want her to be happy.”
“Of course you do. Whoever doubted it?” he replied, half smiling at her strange manner. “But, Ella—”
His words were wasted. Before she had heard them Ella was off. She darted away, for she had recovered her breath by now, and was hidden among the neighbouring thick-growing shrubs, whose shelter she had all but reached before Sir Philip had first accosted her. He stood for a moment looking after her, his brows knit, his bright face clouded with perplexity. But it would scarcely do for him to run after her, as if they were a couple of children playing at “I spy.” Besides which he had his horse to think of. So he slowly mounted again and rode on to the house.