Miss St Quentin hesitated.
“I don’t know,” she said at last naïvely. “I don’t think women—girls—do spoil so easily. And then—there are heaps of girls, here in England, as good-looking and far better-looking than we are—it is much rarer to find a man as handsome as you, Phil. And then—we have had more anxieties and responsibilities than you, and they keep one from being spoilt.”
“I have granny,” said Philip. “I don’t mean that she is an anxiety or a responsibility, but she is—pretty sharp on one, you know. She wouldn’t let me be spoilt.”
“No,” said Madelene, “she is very sensible. And after all you needn’t look so cross, Philip. I didn’t say you were spoilt—I said on the contrary it was great credit to you that you were not.”
“You didn’t,” said Philip, “you allowed me no credit whatever in the matter. I do think it’s rather hard on me to have all this severe handling just because I said I liked nice speeches from people I cared for—mind you, people I care for. That’s quite a different thing from being open to flattery.”
“Well, of course, it is,” said Madelene. “We don’t seem to be understanding each other with our usual perfection of sympathy, somehow, to-day.”
“It’s all because of that tiresome child’s coming,” said Ermine crossly. “I’m afraid Philip is right in dreading it. ‘Coming events cast their shadows before them.’ I can’t say I think Ella’s advent is likely to add to our sunshine.”
Just then came the sound of wheels up the avenue. “What can that be?” said Madelene.
“Callers,” Philip suggested.
“No, it is getting too late. Besides—it sounds too slow and heavy for a carriage or pony-carriage. It is more like—” and she hesitated.