finished task.
'Yes.'
'And given him his dinner?'
'Yes; but he will not eat it. I think he is seriously vexed; he tried to bite me, too!'
Talbot laughs.
'What could have made you choose such a pet?'
'We did not exactly choose him,' replies Margaret gravely; 'he was sent to us; all the rest of the litter were killed. He was the only one the huntsman could save. He brought him to show us. He was a mere ball of fluff then. One could not turn away a poor little orphan ball of fluff from one's door, could one?'
'He was a very tiresome orphan then, as he always has been since,' says Prue drily. 'No one but Peggy would have been bothered with him; he was far more trouble than a baby. She had him,' – turning towards Talbot – 'to sleep in her room for a whole fortnight, and got up every two hours all through the night to feed him.'
Margaret reddens.
'He would have died else!'
'But no other person on earth would have had the patience, would they?' cries Prue, warming with her theme.
'Prue!' says Peggy severely, 'is my trumpeter dead, and are you applying for the situation?'
At this moment the door opens, and one of the three neat maids whom John has already seen careering about the pleasure-grounds in pursuit of the fox, enters with a tea-tray.
The sight of a covered dish of hot cakes recalls to Talbot the original object of his visit.
'Oh, by the bye, I was forgetting! I have a message for you from Lady Roupell.'
'Have you?'
She is standing, straight and lithe as a young poplar, by the tea-table, brandishing a brown teapot in her hand.
'Yes. She bid me tell you that they are all coming down to see you to-morrow afternoon.'
Is it his imagination that a sudden slight stiffening comes over her as he speaks – a stiffening that seems to extend even to the friendly teapot?
'And also,' continues he, not much liking his errand, and hastening to get it over, 'she desired me to say that, as she is particularly fond of muffins, and as yours are an exceptionally good – '
'Are you sure that she said all that?' interrupts Prue, with a sceptical gaiety. 'She is not generally so polite. She generally says only, "Girls, I'm coming; have lots of muffins!"'
Talbot laughs, convicted.
'Perhaps that was nearer the mark.'
'I am so glad that they are all coming,' pursues Prue, with excitement. 'Will Lady Betty come? Oh, I hope so! How beautiful she is! What eyes! What a colour!'
Talbot looks sheepish. The alarmingly increased volume and splendour of his Betty's carnations of late have been the cause of several sharp altercations between him and her. And yet he cannot doubt that the child says it in all good faith. It is not at the corners of her mouth that that tiny malicious smile is lurking. To him how much pleasanter a topic was the fox! He relishes the change in the conversation so little that he scalds his throat in his haste to drink his tea and be gone.
As he walks home across the park he entertains himself with the reflection how he shall account to Betty for his finger.
CHAPTER VII
Next day is as the pretty old song obliquely puts it. Such of the parish as are not Dissenters, drunkards, or the mothers of young babies (it does not leave a very large margin), have been to morning church. The Vicarage, the Manor, and the Red House have all been represented. The Vicarage sits immediately below the pulpit, so that the preacher's eloquence may soar on stronger pinions, upborne by the sight of the nine ugly faces to whom he has given the light of day. The Manor, with its maids, footmen, and stables, spreads half over the aisle; and in one of its pews the Red House, pewless itself, is allowed to take its two seats.
'The day that comes between
A Saturday and Monday,'
On this particular morning Peggy's devotions are a good deal distempered by the fact of her having Miss Harborough for a neighbour – Miss Harborough without her nurse; Miss Harborough wriggling a good deal, bringing out of her pocket things new and old; and finally (the devil having entered into her), when the hymn begins, striking up in rivalry, 'Over the Garden Wall.' As, however, no one perceives this piece of iniquity except Peggy, who feigns not to hear it, she desists, and adopts instead the less reprehensible but still somewhat embarrassing course of closely copying Peggy's every smallest gesture – unbuttoning her glove, turning a page of her prayer-book, whipping out her pocket-handkerchief at the very same instant as her unwitting model. It is even a relief when this flattering if servile imitation gives way to loud stage-whispers, such as, 'Franky has got his book upside down;' 'Don't you wish you were as tall as John Talbot?' 'Evans is all in white;' 'Did you hear me say the Lord's Prayer?' etc. etc.
It is afternoon now. You need not be either a Dissenter, a drunkard, or a mother, not to go to church in the afternoon. Nobody goes – nobody, that is, except Mr. Evans and the children whom he catechises, asking them questions which they never answer, and which he would be very much embarrassed if they did. Luncheon is over.
'Let us give them all the slip,' says Lady Betty. 'I know what milady's Sunday walks are – she does not spare one a turnip or a pigsty; and as to going to tea with the Lambtons, I say, like the man in the Bible, "I prithee have me excused."'
Talbot, to whom this is addressed, follows her in silence, to where, beneath a great lime-tree only just out of flower, hangs the hammock, spread the wolf-skins, stand the wicker-chairs and tables, the iced drinks, and the Sunday papers.
'Now we'll be happy!' says Betty, sitting down sideways on the hammock, and adroitly whisking her legs in after her. 'As soon as milady's back is turned I will have a cigarette, and you shall talk me to sleep. By the bye,' with a slight tinge of umbrage in her tone, 'your conversation of late has rather tended to produce that effect.'
'And what better effect could it produce?' asks John ironically. 'I sometimes wish that I could get some one to talk me to sleep for good and all!'
'How tiresome!' cries his fair one, not paying much heed to this lugubrious aspiration, and feeling in her pocket. 'I have left my cigarette-case in the house; go, like a good fellow, and get it for me. Ask Julie for it.'
He goes with the full docility of a pack-horse or a performing poodle, and on his way indoors meets his young host, sent by his aunt in search of the truants, and to whom he imparts Betty's change of plans.
'So you are not coming!' says Freddy, in a broken-hearted voice, throwing himself into a chair. In his soul he is rather glad.
'So I'm not coming!' repeats she, mimicking his tone.
'May not I stay too?' travelling over the sward in his chair nearer the hammock, and lightly touching the pendent white hand.
'What! and leave your little anatomical specimen lamenting?' cries she ill-naturedly.
He winces.
'I do not know to whom you are alluding. But may not I stay?' with a slight tremble in his voice.
'Of course you may,' replies she cheerfully. 'Who
