Miss Robin put her book to her lips, and looking over it—really rather charmingly,—yawned behind the cover. She was surprisingly dégagée for a country vicar’s niece—self-collected, and admirably pretty; though her openwork stockings, which she did not hesitate to cross her legs to display, filled him with a weak sense of entanglement in some unrighteous mystery.
“You said?” he invited her.
“I said, If you feel certain,” she repeated calmly.
“Ah!” he said. “Yes. You mean?”
“I mean,” she said, without a ruffle, “that Uncle Philip may have settled to swap livings with you pro tem., and may have started off to take yours, and may have got there—if you feel certain that he has.”
“To be sure,” he answered. “Why shouldn’t I?”
“Had he arrived—when you started—for here?”
“No. Certainly he hadn’t arrived. My train was due. I had to leave a message; but——”
She stopped him by dropping her book into her lap; and, clasping one knee in her hands, conned him amiably.
“Did he lead you to expect a niece among the charges he was committing to your care—or cure?” she asked.