“Whole strawberries, from our own garden,” said MacSweeny.
“I’m very fond of strawberries,” observed Bella.
“So am I,” said the Scotch gardener. “Have some more. I’ll remember you in the strawberry time and send you up the first dish I ripen. Of course, I ripen ’em early—in the greenhouse. You shall have some—as soon as they are fit to be picked.”
“How good of you, Mr. MacSweeny!”
“Not at all; I live but to oblige, and you”—he looked round at her—“for you I would do anything.”
“Bella,” said Tom over her chair, “I really could not help it.”
“Will you please to move, Mr. Mountstephen; you are jogging my chair.”
“Do you like grapes?” asked MacSweeny. “I rather flatter myself on my grapes. I am able to keep them, too, so well. My large white Muscats—but there, you shall have some. I’ll send you up a really choice bunch. I think the second sitters down are coming in now. Miss Isabella, if you have done, we will rise and let the others take our places. Here, you, Mountstephen, can have my seat. If you have brought Mary Mauduit I have no doubt she can have Miss Frowd’s chair.”
Poor Tom did not enjoy his supper, and that over, when he sought Isabella to tender his excuses, she deliberately turned her back on him. It was clear MacSweeny had made mischief. He had told her that for the sake of that pale Polly Mauduit he had neglected to fulfil his engagement and keep his appointment.
Dancing began, and Bella sat out with the Scotch gardener, who was too serious a man to approve of the light fantastic toe; as he explained to Bella it was against his principles—“but don’t let that interfere with your enjoyment, if you wish to go to Mr. Mountstephen.”