It was adroit flattery; Serena reddened, averted her face, smiled a little, and kept silence.

That day he did not follow up his advantage.  But on taking leave of Serena early in the afternoon, he looked into her eyes with expressive steadiness, and again she blushed.

A little later, several ladles were gathered in the drawing-room.  On Thursdays Mrs. Mumbray received her friends; sat as an embodiment of the domestic virtues and graces.  To-day the talk was principally on that recent addition to Polterham society, Mrs. Denzil Quarrier.

“I haven’t seen her yet,” said Mrs. Mumbray, with her air of superiority.  “They say she is pretty but rather childish.”

“But what is this mystery about the marriage?” inquired a lady who had just entered, and who threw herself upon the subject with eagerness. (It was Mrs. Roach, the wife of an alderman.) “Why was it abroad?  She is English, I think?”

“Oh no!” put in Mrs. Tenterden, a large and very positive person.  “She is a Dane—­like the Princess of Wales.  I have seen her.  I recognized the cast of features at once.”

An outcry from three ladies followed.  They knew Mrs. Quarrier was English.  They had seen her skating at Bale Water.  One of them had heard her speak—­it was pure English.

“I thought every one knew,” returned Mrs. Tenterden, with stately deliberation, “that the Danes have a special gift for languages.  The Princess of Wales”——­

“But, indeed,” urged the hostess, “she is of English birth.  We know it from Mr. Eustace Glazzard, who is one of their friends.”

“Then why were they married abroad?” came in Mrs. Roach’s shrill voice. “Can English people be legitimately married abroad?  I always understood that the ceremony had to be repeated in England.”

“It was at Paris,” said Mrs. Walker, the depressed widow of a bankrupt corn-merchant.  “There is an English church there, I have heard.”

The others, inclined to be contemptuous of this authority, regarded each other with doubt.

“Still,” broke out Mrs. Roach again, “why was it at Paris?  No one seems to have the slightest idea.  It is really very strange!”

Mrs. Mumbray vouchsafed further information.

“I understood that she came from Stockholm.”

“Didn’t I say she came from Denmark?” interrupted Mrs. Tenterden, triumphantly.

There was a pause of uncertainty broken by Serena Mumbray’s quiet voice.

“Dear Mrs. Tenterden, Stockholm is not in Denmark, but in Sweden.  And we are told that Mrs. Quarrier was an English governess there.”

“Ah! a governess!” cried two or three voices.

“To tell the truth,” said Mrs. Mumbray, more dignified than ever after her vindication, “it is probable that she belongs to some very poor family.  I should be sorry to think any worse of her for that, but it would explain the private marriage.”