“I don’t think Uncle Cosham would object, especially hearing it while he is here,” said Meta—“and if he knew what you told us.”
“He goes to-morrow, does he not?” said Dr. May.
A silence of perplexity ensued. Meta, brave as she was, hardly knew her uncle enough to volunteer, and Norman was privately devising a beginning by the way of George, when Dr. May said, “Well, since it is not a case for putting Ethel in the forefront, I must e’en get it over for you, I suppose.”
“Oh, thank you,” they cried both at once, feeling that he was the proper person in every way, and Norman added, “The sooner the better, if Meta—”
“Oh, yes, yes, the sooner the better,” exclaimed Meta. “And let me tell Flora—poor dear Flora—she is always so kind.”
A testimony that was welcome to Dr. May, who had once, at least, been under the impression that Flora courted Sir Henry’s attentions to her sister-in-law.
Further consultation was hindered by Tom and Blanche bursting upon them from the common, both echoing Norman’s former reproach of “A pretty guide!” and while Blanche explained the sufferings of all the assembly at their tardiness, Tom, without knowing it, elucidated what had been a mystery to the doctor, namely, how they ever met, by his indignation at Norman’s having assumed the guidance for which he was so unfit.
“A shocking leader; Meta will never trust him again,” said Dr. May.
Still Blanche thought them not nearly sufficiently sensible of their enormities, and preached eagerly about their danger of losing standing-room, when they emerged on the moor, and beheld a crowd, above whose heads rose the apex of a triangle, formed by three poles, sustaining a rope and huge stone.
“Here comes Dr. Spencer,” she said. “I hope he will scold you.”