"What's the matter, Hannah? Uncle Ranny?"
"Lord, no, honey! Mr. Ranny's behavin' himself like a angel. Hit was
somethin' that come in the mail. Miss Isobel she don't know, and I don't
know; but Old Miss certainly has got it in fer somebody."
Eleanor's new-found confidence promptly deserted her, and she hastily
took stock of her own shortcomings. Of course she was writing daily to
Harold, but the matter of her private correspondence had been threshed
out during the summer and she had emerged battered but victorious. Aside
from that, she could think of no probable cause she had given for
offense.
In the hall she met Miss Isobel.
"Mother has been asking for you, dear," she said in a voice heavy with
premonition. "She's very much upset about something."
Eleanor anxiously mounted the stairs. It was evidently not a propitious
moment to present her case; and yet, Papa Claude must have an answer
within twenty-four hours. At the door of Madam's room she hesitated. Then
she took the small remnant of her courage in both hands and entered.
Madam was sitting at her desk under the crystal chandelier, with a
severity of expression that suggested nothing less than a court martial.
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