Seeing a pause in the conversation, a small woman in pink satin made a swoop for the seat next the bride, and eyed her with a bright, birdlike smile. This was Mrs Fotheringham (with a small "f"), a lady who combined having nothing to say with a positively uninterrupted flow of conversation. She overcame the apparent difficulty by pouring forth a flood of personal questions, from the storehouse of a curiosity which knew no bounds. She pounced upon Grizel now, as a hawk pounces upon its prey. "So pleased to meet you to-night. So unfortunate to miss you when I called. I've been so longing to meet you. Knew you so well by name. You were Miss Grizel Dundas?" "Yes." "Niece of Lady Griselda?" "Yes." "Lived with her, didn't you? Sort of adopted child?" "Yes." "All your life?" "Yes." "But of course you had parents?--" "No--" The "no" was devilment pure and simple, and gave Mrs Fotheringham what is technically described as a "sensation." She jerked, stared, and finally forced a wooden laugh. "Oh, I see. Yes. Stupid of me. Died, I suppose, at your birth?" "One after. One before." "How sad. Very eccentric, wasn't she? Lady Griselda, I mean. I've heard that she was exceedingly--" "She was." "But you got on with her? Must have done, of course, or she would not... Quite attached to you, I suppose?" "Yes." "So nice! And you stayed with her until her death, and married immediately after? It was immediately after, was it not?" "Several months." "So nice for you that you had Mr Beverley. He must be a proud man. Not many women would have given up so much. But I'm sure you never regret it?" "Oh, but I do!" cried Grizel. "_Often_!" She was getting bored by this time, and decided that this might be a favourable point at which to end the catechism, so she rose and strolled across the room, leaving Mrs Fotheringham to express her consternation to the nearest listener. "How extraordinary! Did you hear? She said she _does_!" But Mrs Evans had known the question-monger from a child, and stood upon no ceremony. "You had no right to put such a question, Flora. It was impertinent. Mrs Beverley answered in the only manner possible, by turning it into a joke." "I suppose so. Yes. It must have been a joke. She _looks_ happy." The birdlike eyes roved towards Martin, who had just entered the room with the other men, and subjected him to a curious scrutiny. "_Do_ you think he looks worth it?" "My dear, it is immaterial what I think! How can any outsider judge of the worth which another woman's husband represents to herself? It's not a question of credentials. It's a question of _fit_!" Half an hour later the Squire buttonholed Peignton in a corner of the room, and gave him his instructions. "I've ordered the car for Miss Mallison. See her safely home, will you, and take it on to your own place? Might as well do two good turns while it's about it."