“You will be going soon?”
“That depends. I called to-day on Mrs. Hooper, and rather hoped to see you. I suppose you were out?”
“No, she wasn’t,” broke in Teesie, who had been an attentive listener, “she was giving me a music lesson. Mamma never lets the governesses see company.”
“Hush, Teesie,” I expostulated, and Teesie turned to her sister, and they gabbled together and held a violent argument in what was really their native tongue. “I’m afraid we must be going home,” I said. “I cannot keep these children out when the mist rises from the lake.”
“May I walk back with you?” he asked.
“No, no, he may not,” declared Teesie with dignified decision. “A young police officer used to come and walk with Miss Shaw, and I told mummy, and Miss Shaw was sent away directly!” and she cracked her finger joints till they sounded like so many squibs.
“And I don’t wish to be sent away,” I said with a smile, as I offered him my hand.
“Well, I wonder at that!” he exclaimed, “but, of course, it would be heart-breaking to part with that delightful child. Au revoir!” raising his cap; and as we passed down the hill, I felt unaccountably uplifted and consoled.
I noticed Mr. Sandars at evening church on Sunday, and he walked home with me, as if it were entirely a matter of course.
“I have friends who live here,” he said, “the Osbornes, and they have told me all about the life you lead with the smart Mrs. Hooper—joie de rue, douleur de maison.”