The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie.
The Precincts, as they gradually thawed to the new-comer, reprobated his choice of companions for his little daughter.
"The Bethune boys are the last you should encourage," said Mrs. Lytchett to him, the night he first dined at the Palace. "They've had no bringing up. Their father doesn't look after them, and their mother can't, poor thing. Marjorie is a spitfire, and has only just left off mischief herself—if she has. There's nothing they're not capable of—nothing!"
"Your little girl is a delight to the Bethune boys," the Bishop said in his kind tones, later. "They brought her to see me this morning. Oh! they won't do her any harm, just the contrary," in reply to an anxious question, "if they aren't led away by their adventurous spirits. They are honest, plucky boys, and chivalric in a peculiar manner. And their sister—ah! there she is!"
The Bishop passed on to greet Marjorie, without the meed of praise he was on the point of bestowing; but Mr. Pelham, watching them, gathered that Marjorie was a favourite. She was looking well, distinguished, in her youthful, immature way, in a graceful, soft dress, whose clinging folds suited her height and slimness. Charity's pink prettiness, aided by every careful detail of dress and ornament, faded to nothing beside her. Marjorie had not been dining, but had come in through the conservatory, her wrap over her arm. There was a look of grave purity and freshness about her, that sort of expectancy on a young face which gives a beholder a pang, knowing how soon it will be disturbed by the wisdom and cares of the world. But the beholder to-night thought it beautiful. It drew him to her, more than any mere beauty would have done. "Just like that"—the unspoken wish arose in his heart—"may my little one grow up!" Another thought followed, stabbing him for a moment with a pang.
He was roused by Charity's soft blandishments.
"Will you come and sing with me, Mr. Pelham? Mrs. Lytchett wants some music. It is such a comfort to have another good tenor, instead of only Mr. Warde. That is he," she said softly, directing his glance to a man who had just joined the Bishop and Marjorie.
"Who is he?" he asked, something in the manner of the lingering handshake, some air of possession, striking coldly on Mr. Pelham.
"One of the minor canons. He is very well off and, as you see, good-looking, and fancies himself a little." Charity laughed lightly. "Also," lowering her voice, "he is said to fancy Marjorie. I believe it is an understood thing. He wanted her a year ago, but she was only seventeen. She is a year younger than I am, but you wouldn't think it, would you?"