He turned quickly, and looked at me with his wildest gaze.
"Come and see her! Why, Miss Margaret, you know that's impossible!" ejaculated he.
"You came to see us the last time you were in Marshlands," said I. "You don't come to see Joyce, you come to see father. Father would be dreadfully hurt to think you were in Marshlands and didn't see him. He doesn't know you are here." This was true, but whether father would have wished me to run so against mother's wishes, I did not stop to think.
"Your sister was not at home when last I came to the Grange," said he, softly.
I almost stamped my foot with vexation at the lack of recklessness in this lover of Joyce's, whose ardent devotion I had begun by envying her once upon a time. But I reflected that it was both foolish and unfair to be vexed, because Frank Forrester was only keeping to the word of his agreement.
"You come to see father, not to see Joyce," I repeated, dogmatically. "Father doesn't seem to be happy about the way that notion of his is turning out."
"That notion?" repeated the young man, in an inquiring tone of voice.
I looked at him.
"Yes," said I. "I don't know exactly what it is, but something or other that father and you have got up between yourselves."