‘You, Owen! come in,’ cried Horatia, writhing herself up.
‘Owen, old Owen! that’s right,’ burst from Cilla, as she sprang to him.
‘Right! Ah! that is not the greeting I expected; I was thinking how to guard my eyes. So, you have had enough of the unprotected dodge! What has Rashe been doing to herself? A desperate leap down the falls of Niagara.’
Horatia was diffuse in the narration; but, after the first, Lucy did not speak. She began by arming herself against her brother’s derision, but presently felt perplexed by detecting on his countenance something unwontedly grave and preoccupied. She was sure that his attention was far away from Rashe’s long story, and she abruptly interrupted it with, ‘How came you here, Owen?’
He did not seem to hear, and she demanded, ‘Is anything the matter? Are you come to fetch us because any one is ill?’
Starting, he said, ‘No, oh no!’
‘Then what brought you here? a family council, or Honor Charlecote?’
‘Honor Charlecote,’ he repeated mistily: then, making an effort, ‘Yes, good old soul, she gave me a vacation tour on condition that I should keep an eye on you. Go on, Rashe; what were you saying?’
‘Didn’t you hear me, Owen? Why, Calthorp, the great Calthorp, is in our wake. Cilly is frantic.’
‘Calthorp about!’ exclaimed Owen, with a start of dismay. ‘Where?’