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So Lady Raffold reasoned to herself as Priscilla poured out the tea in serious silence, and she gradually soothed her own annoyance by the process.

“Come,” she said at length, breaking a long silence, “I should think Ralph Cochrane will be in England in ten days at the latest. We must not be too formal with him as he is a relation. Shall we ask him to luncheon on the Sunday after next?”

Priscilla did not at once reply. When at length she looked up, it was with the air of one coming out of a reverie.

“Oh, yes, if you like, Charlotte,” she said, in her deep, quiet voice. “No doubt he will amuse you. I know you always enjoy Americans.”

“And you, my dear?” said Lady Raffold, with just a hint of sharpness in her tone.

“I?” Again her stepdaughter paused a little, as if collecting her thoughts. “I shall not be here,” she said finally. “I have decided to go down to Raffold for midsummer week, and I don’t suppose I shall hurry back. It won’t matter, will it? I often think that you entertain best alone. And I am so tired of London heat and dust.”

There was an unconscious note of wistfulness in the beautiful voice, but its dominant virtue was determination.

Lady Raffold realised at once to her unspeakable indignation that protest was useless.

“Really, Priscilla,” was all she found to say, “I am amazed–yes, amazed–at your total lack of consideration.”

But Priscilla was quite unimpressed.

“You won’t have time to miss me,” she said. “I don’t think any one will, except, perhaps, Dad; and he always knows where to find me.”

“Your father will certainly not leave town before the end of the season,” said Lady Raffold, raising her voice slightly.

“Poor dear Dad!” murmured Priscilla.

II

THE ROMANCE OF HER LIFE

“And so I escaped. Her ladyship didn’t like it, but it was worth a tussle.”

Priscilla leaned back luxuriously in the housekeeper’s room at Raffold Abbey, and laughed upon a deep note of satisfaction. She had discarded all things fashionable with her departure from London in the height of the season. The crumpled linen hat she wore was designed for comfort and not for elegance. Her gown of brown holland was simplicity itself. She sat carelessly with her arm round the neck of an immense mastiff who had followed her in.

“I’ve cut everything, Froggy,” she declared, “including the terrible American cousin. In fact, it was almost more on his account than any other that I did it. For I can’t and won’t marry him, not even for the sake of the dear old Abbey! Are you very shocked, I wonder?”

Froggy the housekeeper–so named by young Lord Mortimer in his schoolboy days–looked up from her work and across at Priscilla, her brown, prominent eyes, to which she owed her sobriquet, shining lovingly behind her spectacles. Her real name was Mrs. Burrowes, but Priscilla could not remember a time when she had ever called her anything but Froggy. The old familiar name had become doubly dear to both of them now that Mortimer was dead.

“I should be very shocked, indeed, darling, if it were otherwise,” was Froggy’s answer.

And Priscilla breathed a long sigh of contentment. She knew that there was no need to explain herself to this, her oldest friend.

She laid her cheek comfortably against the great dog’s ear.

“No, Romeo,” she murmured. “Your missis isn’t going to be thrown at any man’s head if she knows it. But it’s a difficult world, old boy; almost an impossible world, I sometimes think. Froggy, I know you can be sentimental when you try. What should you do if you fell in love with a total stranger without ever knowing his name? Should you have the fidelity to live in single blessedness all your life for the sake of your hero?”

Froggy looked a little startled at the question, lightly as it was put. She felt that it was scarcely a problem that could be settled offhand. And yet something in Priscilla’s manner seemed to indicate that she wanted a prompt reply.