“I’m not going to be cross to Anna any more, Professor. You may feel quite happy about that.”
Chapter Seven.
The Palmers’ Picnic.
Faithful are the wounds of a friend.
One very hot afternoon a little later, there had been a glee-practising at the Hunts’ house, a meeting which, of all others, was most distasteful to Delia. The last guest had taken leave, and her mother being on the edge of a comfortable nap in the shaded drawing-room, she was just stealing away to her garret, when the bell rang.
“Don’t go away, my love,” murmured Mrs Hunt, half-asleep, and as she spoke Mrs Winn’s solid figure advanced into the room.
Delia resigned herself to listen to the disjointed chat which went on between the two ladies for a little while, but soon the visitor, taking pity on Mrs Hunt’s brave efforts to keep her eyes from closing, turned her attention in another direction.
“I’m afraid,” she said, moving her chair nearer to Delia, “that poor, old Mr Goodwin must be sadly disappointed about his grandchild, isn’t he?”