Misfit Maid. Elizabeth Bailey

matter a request. She demands—or, no, it was required, was it not?—that I should arrange her debut. If anyone can give me a reason why I should be magnanimous after that, I shall be delighted to hear it.’

      Silence succeeded this tirade. Delagarde, having discharged his spleen, looked from one to the other in growing bewilderment. The Worm looked crushed. If Aunt Hes was not on the point of laughter, he did not know his own relative. As for Maidie herself—was that a hint of apology in her eyes? Before he could quite make up his mind, Maidie spoke.

      ‘It is—it is quite true,’ she said, in a gruff little voice. ‘I had not thought of it in quite that way. I suppose I need not blame you for being so horrid.’

      Delagarde was conscious of a peculiar sensation—as of a melting within him. Thrown quite out of his stride, he directed the oddest look upon her, and began, ‘Maidie, I—’

      She cut him short, rising swiftly to her feet. ‘No, it is for me to speak now.’ With difficulty, she overcame a rise of emotion that she did not recognise. ‘I have been selfish. If you feel that you cannot bear to accommodate me, even for a little time, I shall quite understand.’

      Before Delagarde could gather his bemused wits at this wholly unlooked-for turn of events, the door opened to admit a footman. Fleetingly, Delagarde wondered at his butler’s absence, but his attention was caught by the man’s words, which had nothing, as he might have expected, to do with dinner.

      ‘Lord and Lady Shurland,’ announced the footman.