"Oh, I can't believe that," said I, half piqued. "It wouldn't be worth its while."
She looked round at me, a little puzzled, I think, but any rub there might have been between us was put a stop to by the entrance of father and Mr. Hoad from the study.
Mr. Hoad was, if anything, in better spirits than ever; his eyes were bright, and he rubbed his hands as a man might do when anything had gone to his satisfaction. Father's brow, on the contrary, was heavy. We sat down to tea. Mr. Harrod came in a little late. He was about to retire when he saw that we had company; but mother so insisted on his taking his usual seat that it would have been rude to refuse, although I could see that he did not care for the society.
Mother introduced him to Miss Hoad, who just looked up under the brim of her hat, and then went back to her muffin as if none of us were much worth considering. There was altogether an air about her as though she wanted to get over the whole affair as soon as possible. And she did. That bland father of hers had not time for more than half the pleasant things that he usually said to us all before she whipped him off.
"It'll be quite too late to pay our call at 'The Priory' if we don't go at once, papa," said she, rising, and looking at a dainty gold watch at her waist. I suppose she did not trust the time of our old eight-day clock that stood between the windows, yet I'll warrant it was the safer of the two.
She turned to mother.
"I'm sorry to have to run away so soon," said she, with an outward show of cordiality, "but you see it's very important to leave cards on people like the Thornes directly after a large party. And if I don't do it to-day I must drive out again on purpose to-morrow."
"Have you been dining at Thorne's, Hoad?" asked father.
"Yes," answered the solicitor. "He's a rare good-fellow, and he gave us a rare good dinner."
Father did not say a word, and the Hoads took their leave.