“Maybe you’re right,” said Mrs. Bathurst, with gloomy acquiescence.  “Anyhow, it isn’t for me to say you’re wrong.”

And this was why when Dinah brought in the tea, she found a wholly new element in the atmosphere, and missed the customary sharp rebuke from her mother’s lips when she had to go back for the sugar-tongs.

She had been disappointed that her friend Scott had not been of the party.  Isabel’s explanation that he had gone home at Eustace’s wish to attend to some business had not removed an odd little hurt sense of having been defrauded.  She had counted upon seeing Scott that day.  It was almost as if he had failed her when she needed him, though why she seemed to need him she could not have said, nor could he possibly have known that she would do so.

Sir Eustace was in her father’s den.  She was sure that they were getting on very well together from the occasional bursts of laughter with which their conversation was interspersed.  They were not apparently sticking exclusively to business.  And now that Isabel had won her mother, deeply though she rejoiced over the conquest, she felt a little—­a very little—­forlorn.  They were all talking about her, but if Scott had been there he would have talked to her and made her feel at ease.  She could not understand his going, even at his brother’s behest.  It seemed incredible that he should not want to see her home.

She sat meekly in the background, thinking of him, while she drank her tea; and then, just as she finished, there came the sound of voices at the door, and her father and Sir Eustace came in.  They were laughing still.  Evidently the result of the interview was satisfactory to both.  Sir Eustace greeted his hostess with lofty courtesy, and passed on straight to her side.

She turned and tingled at his approach; he was looking more princely than ever.  Instinctively she rose.

“What do you want to get up for?” demanded her mother sharply.

Sir Eustace reached his little trembling fiancee, and took the eager hand she stretched to him.  His blue eyes flashed their fierce flame over her upturned, quivering face.  “Take me into the kitchen—­anywhere!” he murmured.  “I want you to myself.”

She nodded.  “Don’t you want any tea?  All right.  Dad doesn’t either.  I’ll clear away.”

“No, you don’t!” her mother said.  “You sit down and behave yourself!  You’ll clear when I tell you to; not before.”

Sir Eustace wheeled round to her, the flame of his look turning to ice.  “With your permission, madam,” he said with extreme formality, “Dinah and I are going to retire to talk things over.”

He had his way.  It was obvious that he meant to have it.  He motioned to Dinah with an imperious gesture to precede him, and she obeyed, not daring to glance in her mother’s direction.

Mrs. Bathurst said no more.  Something in Sir Eustace’s bearing seemed to quell her.  She watched him go with eyes that shone with a hot resentment under drawn brows.  It took Isabel’s utmost effort to charm her back to a mood less hostile.