“I see. Yes. And Owen was porcelain; and Giles is earthenware; and dear Mrs. Bradley is both together.” Toppie mused on the simile with satisfaction.
But it did not satisfy Alix. “Some earthenware is very rare and precious; tough and fine at once. And it wears and wears.”
“But it never has the beauty,” said Toppie.
Giles was now within speaking distance, and by the light of their lantern Alix saw that his eyes were fixed upon Toppie with an indefinable expression; not alarm; not inquiry; but a steady watchfulness that, to her perception, controlled these feelings.
“I was afraid you’d run away with our young guest and came out to look for you,” he said. “It’s six o’clock.” While Alix, feeling a soft touch on her glove, looked down to see the earnest, illumined eyes of Jock.
“I didn’t realize it was so late,” said Toppie, and to Alix’s ear the tone of her voice was altered. Toppie, for all her familiarity, would never, she felt, have talked with any of the Bradleys as she had with her this afternoon. “We’ve talked and talked; haven’t we, Alix. I must fly!”
“Come in for a little. Mother’s just back. She’d love to see you,” said Giles.
“No, indeed, I can’t. Give her my love. I’ll drop in upon her to-morrow afternoon, after my class.”
“Well, we’ll go back with you, then. It’s late for you to be out alone.”
“For me! On the common! How absurd you are, Giles! Good-night.”