CHAPTER NINE“My dear, you are looking quite pale. Shall I call your father over?”
Sir Peter gave Miranda such a concerned look. He could see even with his poor eyesight that the girl was shaking from head to foot.
“And you have hardly touched your poussin – ”
“I do rather feel a little unwell,” admitted Miranda, trying to catch her father’s eye.
Sir Peter called over the nearest footman.
“Sir George’s daughter is most unwell. Would you please inform him at once? He is the gentleman with the moustache at the end of the table.”
The footman bowed and hurried down the line of diners to where Sir George was sitting.
“I must apologise to you, Sir Peter, if I have appeared rude this evening,” said Miranda.
“Hush! Look, here is your father now.”
“Miranda!” cried Sir George. “What ails you
