Vizard, unconscious of her arrival, was walking up and down the room, fidgeting more and more, when in came Zoe, dressed high in black silk and white lace, looking ever so cozy, and blooming like a rose.
“What!” said he; “in, and dressed.” He took her by the shoulders and gave her a great kiss. “You young monkey!” said he, “I was afraid you were washed away.”
Zoe suggested that would only have been a woman obliterated.
“That is true,” said he, with an air of hearty conviction. “I forgot that.”
He then inquired if she had had a nice walk.
“Oh, beautiful! Imprisoned half the time in a cow-shed, and then drenched. But I'll have a nice walk with you, dear, up and down the room.”
“Come on, then.”
So she put her right hand on his left shoulder, and gave him her left hand, and they walked up and down the room, Zoe beaming with happiness and affection for everybody and walking at a graceful bend.
Severne came in, dressed as perfect as though just taken out of a bandbox. He sat down at a little table, and read a little journal unobtrusively. It was his cue to divest his late te'te-'a-te'te of public importance.
Then came dinner, and two of the party absent. Vizard heard their voices going like mill-clacks at this sacred hour, and summoned them rather roughly, as stated above. His back was to Zoe, and she rubbed her hands gayly to Severne, and sent him a flying whisper: “Oh, what fun! We are the culprits, and they are the ones scolded.”