“Or it may be the other way,” said Norman.
“Eh? Good men don’t like heiresses—here’s a man who likes an heiress—therefore here’s a man that is not good? Ah, ha! Meta, you can see that is false logic, though I’ve forgotten mine. And pray, miss, what are we to say to your uncle?”
“He cannot help it,” said Meta quickly.
“Ha!” said the doctor, laughing, “we remember our twenty-one years, do we?”
“I did not mean—I hope I said nothing wrong,” said Meta, in blushing distress. “Only after what you said, I can care for nothing else.”
“If I could only thank him,” said Norman fervently.
“I believe you know how to do that, my boy,” said Dr. May, looking tenderly at the fairy figure between them, and ending with a sigh, remembering, perhaps, the sense of protection with which he had felt another Margaret lean on his arm.
The clatter of horses’ hoofs caused Meta to withdraw her hand, and Norman to retreat to his own side of the lane, as Sir Henry Walkinghame and his servant overtook them.
“We will be in good time for the proceedings,” called out the doctor. “Tell them we are coming.”
“I did not know you were walking,” said Sir Henry to Meta.