While thus talking, they had reached the terrace in front of the house, where Agincourt was standing between May and Clara, holding a hand of each.
“Are you ready?” asked Ogden, abruptly.
“Ready; but very sorry to go,” said the boy, bluntly.
“May we not offer you some luncheon, Mr. Ogden? You will surely take a glass of wine with us?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing. Nothing beneath the same roof with this woman,” muttered he, below his breath; but her quick ears caught the words, and she whispered,—
“An unkind speech, George,—most unkind!”
While Agincourt was taking his last affectionate farewells of the girls and Sir William, Mr. Ogden had entered the carriage, and thrown himself deeply back into a corner. Mrs. Morris, however, leaned over the door, and looked calmly, steadfastly at him.
“Won't you say good-bye?” said she, softly.
A look of insulting contempt was all his answer.
“Not one kind word at parting? Well, I am better than you; here's my hand.” And she held out her fair and taper fingers towards him.