“I am very, very sorry,” continued Miss Clifford, in the same low voice. “Sorry?” said Jeannie. “My dear Miss Clifford, there’s nothing whatever for you to be sorry for. Please believe that. I’m delighted you should have the picture here--I am, really. But please be very careful not to repeat what Colonel Raymond says. I will see that he doesn’t. Good-bye. I must go after my aunt. Please cheer up. Does any one else know?” “Colonel Raymond is rather fond of talking,” said Miss Clifford, faintly. “So I should think.” “He told Phœbe and me not to tell any one. And Mrs. Raymond was there, too.” “Good gracious, how many more?” “No one else,” said Miss Clifford. Jeannie rose. “Well, I must go,” she said. “And if you won’t promise me never to blame yourself, I sha’n’t forgive you. So promise.” “I will try,” said Miss Clifford. Jeannie nodded and smiled at her, and went quickly down the stairs after Miss Fortescue. CHAPTER IX The Aveshams always had coffee, when it was fine, under the mulberry-tree, the fruits of which were destined to make the g--n, as Mrs. Collingwood would have preferred to express it. During lunch on this particular day Miss Fortescue had, in deference to Jeannie’s wish, kept silence about the picture, though when the exhibition was mentioned she had cast her eyes up to the ceiling with a gesture of passionate despair. Arthur had mentioned casually that Jack Collingwood had telegraphed to him to say that he would come to them next day for the Sunday, at which news Jeannie had laughed in a loud and meaningless manner, and Miss Fortescue’s eyes had been so glued to the ceiling that it seemed doubtful if she would ever detach them. “It is such good manners to telegraph,” said Arthur, “much more business-like. Don’t you think so, Aunt Em?” “Extraordinary lapses--” began Miss Fortescue. “Aunt Em,” said Jeannie, “you said you wouldn’t.” “Wouldn’t what?” asked Arthur. “Nothing. I’m glad he is coming, Arthur; I’ve got several things to say after lunch. Wroxton is waking up.” “Is it?” asked he, dubiously. “Yes. Aunt Em, do have some pâté.” “Innocent birds,” said Miss Fortescue. “Quite innocent. I’ll give you some.” Miss Fortescue watched Jeannie helping her with an absent eye, which suddenly became attentive. “No truffles, Jeannie,” she said; “I can’t bear truffles. Why they put them in pâté I can’t think. It entirely spoils it.” Jeannie laughed. “The plot thickens,” she said. “As soon as you’ve finished eating the liver of diseased game, Aunt Em, we’ll go out.” “Not diseased, dear,” said Miss Fortescue, earnestly, with her mouth full, “only unwisely fed. They feed them on figs. How delicious! And how unwise!” “How clever and how immoral!” said Jeannie, who had gone as a guest to the Ladies’ Literary Union. “That woman,” said Miss Fortescue, incisively, “thinks everything that doesn’t live in a close is immoral.”