“Cheer up, lady-bird, I wish you liked me half as much as I like you!”
“I do like you: oh, so much!” cried Soppy, passionately. “Well, then, you can write, you say?”
“A little.”
“You shall write to me now and then, and I to you. I’ll talk to your grandfather about it. Ah, there he is, surely!” The boat now ran into the shelving creek, and by the honeysuckle arbour stood Gentleman Waife, leaning on his stick.
“You are late,” said the actor, as they landed, and Sophy sprang into his arms. “I began to be uneasy, and came here to inquire after you. You have not caught cold, child?”
SOPHY.—“Oh, no.”
LIONEL.—“She is the best of children. Pray, come into the inn, Mr. Waife; no toddy, but some refreshment.”
WAIFE.—“I thank you,—no, sir; I wish to get home at once. I walk slowly; it will be dark soon.”
Lionel tried in vain to detain him. There was a certain change in Mr. Waife’s manner to him: it was much more distant; it was even pettish, if not surly. Lionel could not account for it; thought it mere whim at first: but as he walked part of the way back with them towards the village, this asperity continued, nay increased. Lionel was hurt; he arrested his steps.
“I see you wish to have your grandchild to yourself now. May I call early to-morrow? Sophy will tell you that I hope we may not altogether lose sight of each other. I will give you my address when I call.”