Thus do the sportive Fates love to make mock of the most carefully-laid family plans!
Rose and Peter faced each other, sharing one blush between them. Their natural pleasure and astonishment was only equalled by their mutual admiration.
"What a little love she is in that pretty gown," thought he, a connoisseur in gowns. And "Who would take him for a draper now?" thought she, noting the vigorous frame and the perfect correctness of its garb. As a matter of fact, no one did take him for a draper, and no one cared what he was, since he was Mrs Simpson's nephew and a man.
As soon as it was understood that a previous acquaintanceship existed between them, Rose was given Peter to take care of—to show round and introduce. They walked off, elated.
"Well, I never expected to see you here!" said she.
"Nor I you," said he. "I thought I was never going to see you any more."
"How is your mother? How is dear Bruce? Will anyone take him for walks while you are away? How terribly he will miss you!"
"Well, it is something to be missed, even by a dog."
"What a nice face your aunt has! Is she your father's—?"
"No, my mother's. They are very much alike. But—you don't know my mother—"