What is your
aunt's name?"
Isabel, still resting her hand on Robert's arm, felt it tremble a little
as Hardyman made this last inquiry. If she had been speaking to one of
her equals she would have known how to dispose of the question without
directly answering it. But what could she say to the magnificent
gentleman on the stately horse? He had only to send his servant into the
village to ask who the young lady from London was staying with, and the
answer, in a dozen mouths at least, would direct him to her aunt. She
cast one appealing look at Moody and pronounced the distinguished name
of Miss Pink.
"Miss Pink?" Hardyman repeated. "Surely I know Miss Pink?" (He had not
the faintest remembrances of her.) "Where did I meet her last?" (He ran
over in his memory the different local festivals at which strangers
had been introduced to him.) "Was it at the archery meeting? or at the
grammar-school when the prizes were given? No? It must have been at the
flower show, then, surely?"
It _had_ been at the flower show. Isabel had heard it from Miss Pink
fifty times at least, and was obliged to admit it now.
"I am quite ashamed of never having called," Hardyman proceeded. "The
fact is, I have so much to do. I am a bad one at paying visits. Are you
on your way home? Let me follow you and make my apologies personally to
Miss Pink."
Moody looked at Isabel. It was only a momentary glance, but she
perfectly understood it.
"I am afraid, sir, my aunt cannot have the honor of seeing you to-day,"
she said.
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