“Oh, dear, yes,” said Ella, “she is almost ready. But I must be quick—I was running down to the conservatory for some fern.”
She ran off again, meeting no one till she had chosen and cut the sprays of maidenhair. Then as she turned to leave the fernery, by way of the drawing-room, she heard voices there. Two or three persons had entered while she was busy about the maidenhair. And one of the voices was that of Sir Philip Cheynes. Ella hesitated; her heart beat fast, she felt for a moment or two as if she could not face him composedly; and at that juncture she would have given years of her life rather than let him perceive any traces of nervousness or agitation. Yet stay where she was for more than a minute she could not.
“I am not going to play eavesdropper again. What an unlucky place this fernery seems for me.”
She could not avoid overhearing a little—the end of a conversation between Sir Philip and another man, as they came strolling towards the spot where she stood.
“It is awfully good of you, Phil, to take such an interest in it—but—no I am not sanguine. If the obstacles are to some extent imaginary, they are, with an almost morbidly conscientious mind like hers, all the more difficult to combat. And this recent affair has done great harm; she will take all the blame of it to herself.”
“Yes,” came Philip’s voice in reply, “I know. But don’t lose heart, my dear fellow. You can’t—Why, Ella!” with a sharp exclamation, “is it—is it really you?”
Ella’s lips were trembling, but she made a tremendous effort. And the sudden perception that Sir Philip was quite as nervous, or considerably more so than herself helped in a marvellous way to calm her.
“I was cutting some maidenhair for Ermine,” she began. “I—there was no one in the drawing-room when I passed through.”
“It is certainly a curious coincidence,” said Sir Philip. “I—I wish—I hate this place—one never knows who may or may not be here,” he added vehemently.
Ella grew cold as ice.