“Your people,” said the clear voice of Lady Conant in her ear.
“I suppose so,” said Sophie, blushing, for they were within two yards of her; but it was not a question.
“Then that child looks as if it were coming down with mumps. You ought to tell the mother she shouldn't have brought it to church.”
“I can't leave 'er behind, my lady,” the woman said. “She'd set the 'ouse afire in a minute, she's that forward with the matches. Ain't you, Maudie dear?”
“Has Dr. Dallas seen her?”
“Not yet, my lady.”
“He must. You can't get away, of course. M-m! My idiotic maid is coming in for her teeth to-morrow at twelve. She shall pick her up—at Gale Anstey, isn't it?—at eleven.”
“Yes. Thank you very much, my lady.”
“I oughtn't to have done it,” said Lady Conant apologetically, “but there has been no one at Pardons for so long that you'll forgive my poaching. Now, can't you lunch with us? The vicar usually comes too. I don't use the horses on a Sunday”—she glanced at the Brazilian's silver-plated chariot. “It's only a mile across the fields.”
“You—you're very kind,” said Sophie, hating herself because her lip trembled.