“Indeed, Granny, Fred was the whole party. He is not naturally handsome, but he has distinction, and he was well-dressed. And I never heard anyone talk as he did. He told the most delightful stories, he was full of mimicry and wit, and said things that brought everyone into the merry talk; and I am sure he charmed and astonished the whole party. Mr. Denning asked me quietly afterwards ‘what university he was educated at.’ I think he took it all as education, and had some wild ideas of finishing Bryce in a similar manner.”
Madam was radiant. “I told you so,” she said proudly. “The Mostyns have intellect as well as land. There are no stupid Mostyns. I hope you asked him to play. I think his way of handling a piano would have taught them a few things Russians and Poles know nothing about. Poor things! How can they have any feelings left?”
“There was no piano in the room, Granny, and the company separated very soon after dinner.”
“Somehow you ought to have managed it, Ethel.” Then with a touch of anxiety, “I hope all this cleverness was natural—I mean, I hope it wasn’t champagne. You know, Ethel, we think as we drink, and Fred isn’t used to those frisky wines. Mostyn cellars are full of old sherry and claret, and Fred’s father was always against frothing, sparkling wines.”
“Granny, it was all Fred. Wine had nothing to do with it, but a certain woman had; in fact, she was the inspirer, and Fred fell fifty fathoms deep in love with her the very moment she entered the room. He heard not, felt not, thought not, so struck with love was he. Ruth got him to a window for a few moments and so hid his emotion until he could get himself together.”
“Oh, what a tale! What a cobweb tale! I don’t believe a word of it,” and she laughed merrily.
“‘Tis true as gospel, Granny.”
“Name her, then. Who was the woman?”
“Dora.”
“It is beyond belief, above belief, out of all reason. It cannot be, and it shall not be, and if you are making up a story to tease me, Ethel Rawdon——”
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