"Papa is out in the grounds," I replied, "and I saw him speaking to Miss Reinhart."
"But," said my mother, "your papa does not walk out with Miss Reinhart. Laura, darling, you must think before you speak."
Now, I knew that Sir Roland went out every day with my governess; more than that, two or three times each day I had seen them; but Patience looked at me with a solemn warning in her face, and I answered, as I kissed her:
"I will try, darling mother. Shall I ever speak as plainly and as prettily as you do, I wonder?"
I loved to make little loving, flattering speeches to her, they pleased her so much and brightened her sweet face; but that evening, when I went back to her room, I saw her eyes were swollen with weeping. I vowed to myself to be careful.
"Where is papa, darling?" she asked, with loving, wistful eyes. "I have only seen him once to-day."
"He is still in the dining-room, mamma." Then I added, with a guilty, blushing face, for I had left my governess with him, "and you know that I am growing wise enough to understand gentlemen like a nod over the last glass of port."
"And Miss Reinhart, Laura, where is she?"
I was so unused to speaking anything but the plain, simple truth—it was an effort even to evade the question, and say that she generally enjoyed herself after dinner in her own fashion. She looked very relieved, and Patience gave me a friendly nod, as though she would say, "You are improving, Miss Laura."
Even after that, so soon as I entered the room, the loving, wistful eyes would seek mine, and the question was always on her lips: