Mrs. Ingleton looked all around her with smiling
criticism, and nodded to herself as if seeing her way to many
improvements. She walked to the windows.
"What a funny, old-fashioned garden! Quite medieval! I foresee a
very busy time in store. Who lives on the other side of this
property?"
"Preston--George Preston, the M.F.H.," said her husband, lounging
up behind her. "About the richest man about here. Made his money
on the Turf."
She gave him a quick look. "Is he young?" she asked.
He hesitated, "Not very."
"Married?" questioned Mrs. Ingleton, with the air of a ferret
pursuing its quarry down a hole.
"No," said the squire, somewhat reluctantly.
"Ah!" said Mrs. Ingleton, in a tone of satisfaction.
"Won't you have some tea?" said Sylvia's grave voice behind them.
Mrs. Ingleton wheeled. "Bless the child!" she exclaimed. "She has
a face as long as a fiddle. Let us have tea by all means. I am as
hungry as a hunter. I hope there is something really substantial
for us."
"It is less than an hour to dinner," said Sylvia.
She hardly looked at her father. Somehow she had a feeling that he
did not want to meet her eyes.
He sat in almost unbroken silence while she poured out the tea,
"for the last time, dear," as her step-mother jocosely remarked,
and for his sake alone she exerted herself to make polite
conversation with this new mistress of the Manor.
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