MacDonald looked at her, and she blushed.

She was made to feel that she had taken an unpardonable liberty. Evidently the late Marchioness of Caterham had never committed such a solecism as to enter one of her own hothouses and help herself to grapes.

“If you had given orders, m’lady, a bunch should have been cut and sent in to you,” said MacDonald severely.

“Oh, thank you,” said Lady Coote. “Yes, I will do that another time.”

“But they’re no properly fit for picking yet.”

“No,” murmured Lady Coote, “no, I suppose not. We’d better leave it then.”

MacDonald maintained a masterly silence. Lady Coote nerved herself once more.