“I hid it under some bushes,” she said, “just to keep her hunting, and where it wouldn’t melt really.”
Her second reason was characteristic enough. She could never offer the tiniest hurt from one hand without its remedy from the other. I foresaw she’d whip her children by and by with a strap of healing-plaister, the poor little weak creature.
“O, you naughty little thing!” I giggled; but was serious the next moment, questioning and urging her.
“Quick!” I said. “What’s he going to do? Have you a letter?”
She shook her head.
“He’ll have a postchaise outside in a night or two, and will let you know; but for the moment he’s watched, and daren’t move, or commit himself to paper.”
“The hero! He’s still there, then, at Wellcot? If it had been me, I’d have had my servants flog him out of the house.”
“O, Diana! How can you say such a thing, and you in love with him!”
“Whom I love I chasten. I’m in love, like Mrs. Sophia, with myself through him. He’s going to make me great. Now, tell me what’s the state of things there.”
She shook her head rather piteously.