Ella turned towards her.
“Do you mean my own mother?” she asked coldly.
“Of course,” Madelene replied. “I said so.” Colonel St Quentin moved impatiently.
“Why can you not answer Ermine’s question simply, Ella?” he said. “And why do you speak to Madelene in that tone? It is, to say the least, very questionable taste to accentuate in that way the fact that you and your sisters had not the same mother. And—if no one has told you so before, I tell you now that your mother, my second wife, loved my two elder daughters as if they had been her own, and her best wish for you was that you might resemble them. Where you have got these vulgar notions about half-sisters and so on—I see you are full of them—I can’t conceive. Is it from your Aunt Phillis?”
“No-o,” Ella replied, a little startled apparently by her father’s vehemence. “I did not intend to say anything to annoy you,” she added.
“But about the singing?” Ermine said again.
“Yes,” said Ella, “I do sing a little. I like it better than playing. I will try to sing if you—if papa wishes it.”
Her tone was humble—almost too much so. There was a kind of obtrusive dutifulness about it that was rather irritating. Still Madelene gave her credit for having put some force on herself to keep down her temper.
“Shall I play a little in the first place?” Miss St Quentin said, seating herself at the piano as she spoke.
Madelene played beautifully, though her style was very quiet. Ella rose gently from her seat and came nearer her; she stood silent and motionless till the last soft notes had died away.