"I beg your pardon. I am so sorry, Leslie, if I——."
"No, no," broke in Leslie, ashamed of the agitation into which Lucy's idle badinage had thrown her. "Call me what you like, dear."
Lucy looked up at her timidly and wonderingly, and was silent; and Leslie had to force herself to talk to restore her companion's peace of mind.
They went into the Park, talking of the future and their chances.
"It will not be long now," said Lucy. "Oh, how I long for the day when we shall hold those certificates in our hands! I shall be so proud and glad that I shall scarcely be able to contain myself. I shall have to telegraph to mother; it will cost eighteenpence, for they are two miles from the telegraph office; but I don't care. And you'll wire, too, Leslie——."
Leslie shook her head.
"I have no one to tell," she said; "at least I shall save the eighteenpence," and she smiled gravely.
"You will have me, at any rate," murmured Lucy gently, and Leslie pressed her hand gratefully.
They wandered in the Park—what a host of memories it calls up to him who knows his history of London, that same Park!—until the twilight came, and then turned homewards.
As they passed down Pall Mall they met the broughams and cabs rolling home to the West, and Lucy, regarding them with a pleasant interest, remarked—