XIII
Lilian knew the letter by heart now, she had read it through and through so often. She had received it early that morning, when, as usual, she ran downstairs at the postman's knock, so as to take that precious letter, that came daily, from the floor where it lay as it had been dropped through the slit in the door. Of late, the sisters and brother had noticed the hurry to capture the first post, and there had been a little good-humoured chaffing over the breakfast-table, where they all sat together—the father and mother took their breakfast upstairs in bed, in keeping with their slatternly lives.
"Going to be a blushing bride soon, Lily?" said Harry, with a wink to Edith.
"Don't be silly!" Lilian said, crumbling her letter in her pocket.
"What's he like? Is it that nobleman who came here a few weeks ago? If so, I don't think much of his taste in ties!"
"It's better than your taste in socks," retorted Lilian.
"Aha!—a hit, a palpable hit. Guessed it at once. Pass the butter, Edie."
"Do tell us all about it," Florence urged.