As he spoke, in stern, rigid resolution—only allowing himself one long, deep, heavy sigh at the end—he stood still at the gates of the court, which were opened as the rest of the party came up; and, as they crossed and entered the hall, they beheld, through the open door of the drawing-room, two figures in the window—one, a dark torso, perched outside on the sill; the other, in blue skirt and boy-like bodice, negligently reposing on one side of the window-seat, her dainty little boots on the other; her coarse straw bonnet, crossed with white, upon the floor; the wind playing tricks with the silky glory of her flaxen ringlets; her cheek flushed with lovely carnation, declining on her shoulder; her eyes veiled by their fair fringes.
‘Hallo!’ she cried, springing up, ‘almost caught asleep!’ And Owen, pocketing his pipe, spun his legs over the windowsill, while both began, in rattling, playful vindication and recrimination—
(he wouldn’t.’
‘It wasn’t my fault (
(she wouldn’t.’
‘Indeed, I wasn’t a wilful heathen; Mr. Parsons, it was he—’
‘It was she who chose to take the by-ways, and make us late. Rush into church before a whole congregation, reeking from a six-miles walk! I’ve more respect for the Establishment.’
‘You walked!’ cried five voices.
‘See her Sabbatarianism!’
‘Nonsense! I should have driven Charlie’s cab.’