He hesitated, “Not very.”

“Married?” questioned Mrs. Ingleton, with the air of a ferret pursuing its quarry down a hole.

“No,” said the squire, somewhat reluctantly.

“Ah!” said Mrs. Ingleton, in a tone of satisfaction.

“Won’t you have some tea?” said Sylvia’s grave voice behind them.

Mrs. Ingleton wheeled.  “Bless the child!” she exclaimed.  “She has a face as long as a fiddle.  Let us have tea by all means.  I am as hungry as a hunter.  I hope there is something really substantial for us.”

“It is less than an hour to dinner,” said Sylvia.

She hardly looked at her father.  Somehow she had a feeling that he did not want to meet her eyes.

He sat in almost unbroken silence while she poured out the tea, “for the last time, dear,” as her step-mother jocosely remarked, and for his sake alone she exerted herself to make polite conversation with this new mistress of the Manor.

It was not easy, for Mrs. Ingleton did not want to talk upon indifferent subjects.  Her whole attitude was one of unconcealed triumph.  It was obvious that she meant to enjoy her conquest to the utmost.  She was not in the least tired after her journey; she was one of those people who never tire.  And as soon as she had refreshed herself with tea she announced her intention of going round the house.

Her husband, however, intervened upon this point, assuring her that there would be ample time in the morning, and Mrs. Ingleton yielded it not very gracefully.

She was placed at the head of the table at dinner, but she could not accept the position without comment.

“Poor little Sylvia!  We shall have to make up for this, or I shall never be forgiven,” with an arch look at the squire which completely missed its mark.

There were no subtleties about Gilbert Ingleton.  He was thoroughly uncomfortable, and his manner proclaimed the fact aloud.  If he were happy with his enchantress away from home, the home atmosphere completely dispelled all enchantment.  Was it the fault of the slim, erect girl with the red-brown eyes who sat so gravely silent on his right hand?

He could not in justice accuse her, and yet the strong sense of her disapproval irritated him.  What right had she, his daughter, to sit in judgment upon him?  Surely he was entitled to act for himself—­choose his own course—­make his own hell if he wished!  It was all quite unanswerable.  He knew she would not have attempted to answer if he had put it to her, but that very fact made him the more sore.  He hated to feel himself at variance with Sylvia.

“Can’t you play something?” he said to her in desperation as they entered the drawing-room after dinner.

She looked at bun, her wide brows slightly raised.

“Well?” he questioned impatiently.

“Ask—­Mrs. Ingleton first!” she said in a rapid whisper.