“Ah, Essie, you are too much of a child yet to understand the force of the love that—”
“Don’t,” broke in Esther, “that is just like people in novels; and mamma would not like it.”
“But if I feel ten times far more for you than ‘the people in novels’ attempt to express?”
“Don’t,” again cried Esther. “It is Sunday.”
“And what of that, my most scriptural little queen?”
“It isn’t a time to talk out of novels,” said Esther, quickening her pace, to reach the frequented road and throng of church-goers.”
“I am not talking out of any novel that ever was written,” said Bobus seriously; but she was speeding on too fast to heed him, and started as he laid a hand on her arm.
“Stay, Essie; you must not rush on like a frightened fawn, or people will stare,” he said; and she slackened her pace, though she shook him off and went on through the numerous passengers on the footpath, with her pretty head held aloft with the stately grace of the startled pheasant, not choosing to seem to hear his attempts at addressing her, and taking refuge at last in the innermost recesses of the family seat at Church, though it was full a quarter to five.
There the rest of the party found her, and as they did not find Bobus, they concluded that all was safe. However, when the two Johns were walking home with Mother Carey, Bobus joined them, and soon made his mother fall behind with him, asking her, “I hope your eloquence prevailed.”
“Far from it, Bobus,” she said. “In fact you have alarmed them.”