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But there was something else in her mind than small jealousy. When Letty had been a brilliant child in short frocks, the vicar's wife, who was scarcely six years older, had opened her heart, had tried to make herself loved by Mrs. Watton's niece. There had been a moment when they had been "Madge" and "Letty" to each other, even since Letty had "come out." Now, whenever Mrs.
Watton's energetic hands and eyes once more, called Heaven to witness "have ever counted for much, I should say, in Letty's career. There is another sister, a little delicate, silent thing, that looks after them. Oh! Letty isn't stupid; I should think not. I suppose you're alarmed about Sir George. You needn't be. She does it with everybody."
"It had tumbled off Sir George's table, I think," said Grier, with elaborate innocence; "someone must have took it out of your photo-box." "Thank you," said Letty, shortly. "You may go, Grier." The maid went, and Letty was left standing with the photograph in her hands. Two days before Tressady had been in Edward Watton's room in St.
Watton's sharp grey eyes smiled behind her fan, and the attention of her neighbour, Lord Fontenoy an uneasy attention was again and again drawn to the pair. Meanwhile, during the first half of dinner, a chair immediately opposite to Tressady's place remained vacant.
"No more than one can mistake a saying of Harding Watton's," said a vibrating voice behind them. And there in the open doorway stood Tressady, pale, spent, and hollow-eyed, yet none the less the roused master of the house, determined to assert himself against a couple of intruders. Letty looked at him in silence, one foot beating the ground.
"Are you going in for more visits when you leave here?" she inquired. "Yes, two or three," said Letty, turning her delicate head unwittingly. She had been throwing blandishments to Mrs. Watton's dog, a grey Aberdeen terrier, who stood on the rug quietly regarding her. "You spend most of the year in visits, don't you?" "Well, a good deal of it," said Letty.
James's Street, and had seen this amateur photograph of Marcella Maxwell and her boy on Watton's table. The poetic charm of it had struck him so forcibly that he had calmly put it in his pocket, telling the protesting owner that he in his role of great friend could easily procure another, and must beware of a grudging spirit.
"Then, I have been making Saunders draw up a statement for the newspapers in answer to Watton's last attack, and it would have been a help to talk to you before we sent it off. Above all, if I had known of the meeting I should have begged you not to go. I ought to have warned you yesterday, for I knew that there was some ugly agitation developing down there.
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