"No, no, you have not. Please, do not think that. I—I am crying for, for happiness, I think. But oh, I am so sorry too! Please, let me get my handkerchief!"
What would have been the result of this somewhat contradictory statement, it would be perhaps rash to speculate upon, judging by the look of happiness which suddenly overspreads the doctor's face. But at this critical moment a small urchin turns the corner of the lane and slowly comes into sight. He holds a tin-can in one hand and something tied up in a red-cotton handkerchief in the other—presumably his dinner. The fact of coming upon the party at the stile so suddenly and unexpectedly appears to embarrass him exceedingly, for he stands as if rooted to the spot, gaping and staring, first at the horse, then at Sinclair, then at Honor; his eyes travelling back again in reversed order, and finally resting on Jack, with whom he seems struck with admiration. All chance of private conversation being apparently at an end, John Sinclair rises, and first possessing himself of Honor's basket, holds out his hand and helps her down from the stile with elaborate politeness. Then once more slipping the reins over his arm, he retraces his steps (Jack meekly following, though it is the opposite direction from home), and walks slowly along by Honor's side until they reach the gate of the Rookery.
When Honor enters the house it is with a confused sense of having conceded so far as to make three distinct promises to Dr. John Sinclair. One is that should Molly marry some day in the far distant future, she, Honor, shall consider herself pledged to become Mrs. Sinclair, at a moment's notice. The second is that she shall straightway inform her mother of what has passed between them, as he intends calling that evening to speak to Mrs. Merivale on the subject himself.
The third concession (and Honor blushes when she thinks of it) is that "Dr. Sinclair" is to be dropped from that time forth, and that she is to call him simply "John" for the future. Honor, however, privately resolves to call him nothing, if she can avoid doing otherwise, as a way out of the difficulty.
They are all seated at the dinner-table when she enters the room, Doris at the head carving, for which Honor is devoutly thankful, feeling possibly that in her present state of confusion she would not know a shoulder of mutton from a round of beef. Mrs. Merivale is at the other end of the table.
"You are late," says Doris, brandishing the carving-knife. "Which will you have, Honor, hashed mutton or cold beef?"
"Cold mutton, please," replies Honor, and Doris, staring a little, begins to carve her some beef, thinking to herself that the hot sun has turned her sister's head a little.
Dick presently pushes the salad over.
"No, thanks," says Honor absently; and at that Dick arrests the progress of the fork which is half-way to his mouth, and laying it down again exclaims:
"Why, what is the matter with Honor? She is as red as a poppy; she calls beef mutton and refuses salad in the same breath!"