“Oh!” exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a moment, she resumed:
“Perhaps he did not see you.”
“Or was it a stony Britisher?” I asked.
“He saw me,” declared Lettie, “or he wouldn’t have made such a babyish show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond.”
“It may have been no show—he still may not have seen you.”
“I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant. He need not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him.”
“You seem very cross,” said I.
“Indeed I am not. But he knew I had to walk all this way home, and he could take up Margaret, who has only half the distance.”
“Was he driving?”
“In the dog-cart.” She cut her toast into strips viciously. We waited patiently.
“It was mean of him, wasn’t it mother?”
“Well, my girl, you have treated him badly.”
“What a baby! What a mean, manly baby! Men are great infants.”
“And girls,” said mother, “do not know what they want.”
“A grown-up quality,” I added.
“Nevertheless,” said Lettie, “he is a mean fop, and I detest him.”
She rose and sorted out some stitchery. Lettie never stitched unless she were in a bad humour. Mother smiled at me, sighed, and proceeded to Mr. Gladstone for comfort; her breviary and missal were Morley’s Life of Gladstone.
