“Then it is not true that your brother and his bride are arrived?”
“True in the same sense as that I am at home. There she is, you see—only you are not to see her on any account,” as a bow necessarily passed between him and Rachel. “Now mind you have not been introduced to Mrs. Keith, and if you utter a breath that will bring the profane crowd in shoals upon the Rectory, I shall never forgive you.”
“Then I am afraid we must not hope to see you at the bazaar for the idiots.”
“No, indeed,” Bessie answered, respecting Rachel’s gesture of refusal; “no one is to infringe her incog, under penalty of never coming here again.”
“You are going?” he added to Bessie; “indeed, that was what brought me here. My sisters sent me to ask whether they may shelter themselves under your matronly protection, for my mother dreads the crush.”
“I suppose, as they put my name down, that I must go, but you know I had much rather give the money outright. It is a farce to call a bazaar charity.”
“Call it what you will, it is one device for a little sensation.”
Rachel’s only sensation at that moment was satisfaction at the sudden appearance of Ranger’s white head, the sure harbinger of his master and Alick, and she sprang up to meet them in the shrubbery path—all her morbid shyness at the sight of a fresh face passing away when her hand was within Alick’s arm. When they came forth upon the lawn, Alick’s brow darkened for a moment, and there was a formal exchange of greetings as the guest retreated.
“I am so sorry,” began Bessie at once; “I had taken precautions against invasion, but he did not go to the front door. I do so hope Rachel has not been fluttered.”
“I thought he was at Rio,” said Alick.