"Certainly not," assented Mr. Claughton. "But how about a class in the Sunday-school?"
"That would be delightful! Father, do say that I may."
Colonel Tracy was dubious. He asked a good many questions as to hours, modes, ways of management, and supposed perils. "I can't and I won't have Dorothea running in the way of infectious diseases," he said.
Dorothea, seated near the young clergyman, noted a movement at the sound of her name,—a sudden widening of the eyes, and an odd flash which might, perhaps, have done duty for a smile. Edred seemed less given to smiling than Mervyn.
"I can't and I won't have it!" repeated the Colonel irascibly. "Girls of eighteen are ripe to catch anything. I won't have her running after the school-children into filthy alleys, whenever they don't turn up. She's too young, and she's not used to London."
"But if I promise always to take Mrs. Stirring with me?" pleaded Dorothea. "I do so want some little work. I have nothing to do now, for anybody."
"One would wish, of course, that a Sunday-school teacher should sometimes see the children in their homes," said Mr. Claughton calmly, with a manner which recalled to Dorothea the stately Emmeline. "But I think I can arrange to give a class to Miss Tracy, consisting of children with respectable homes. If there are any exceptions, I undertake to warn her not to go. Will that do?"
"Well, well—I suppose I shall have to let her try," the Colonel said reluctantly. "School's close to the Church, you say? Well, I suppose she must try. She'll be tired of it in a month."
Dorothea smiled, and there was a decisive little shake of her head.
A faint answering smile hovered round the lips of the grave young clergyman.