The gay taunt was cut short by a tap at the door, and Flora looked in.
“Dr. Spencer has brought your things, Norman. I am sorry to disturb you—but come down, Meta—I ran away very uncivilly to fetch you. I hope it is not too cruel,” as she drew Meta’s arm into her own, and added, “I have not been able speak to George.”
Meta suspected that, in the wish to spare her, Flora had abstained from seeking him.
The evening went off like any other evening—people ate and talked, thought Mrs. Rivers looking very ill, and Miss Rivers very pretty—Flora forced herself into being very friendly to Sir Henry, commiserating the disappointment to which she had led him; and she hoped that he suspected the state of affairs, though Tom, no longer supplanted by his elder brother, pursued Meta into the sheltered nook, where Flora had favoured her seclusion, to apologise for having left her to the guidance of poor Norman, whose head was with the blackamoors. It was all Harry’s fault.
“Nonsense, Tom,” said Harry; “don’t you think Norman is better company than you any day?”
“Then why did you not walk him off instead of me?” said Tom, turning round sharply.
“Out of consideration for Meta. She will tell you that she was very much obliged to me—”
Harry checked himself, for Meta was colouring so painfully that his own sunburned face caught the glow. He pushed Tom’s slight figure aside with a commanding move of his broad hand, and said, “I beg your pardon, upon my word, though I don’t know what for.”
“Nor I,” said Meta, rallying herself, and smiling. “You have no pardon to beg. You will know it all to-morrow.”
“Then I know it now,” said Harry, sheltering his face by leaning over the back of a chair, and taming the hearty gaiety of his voice. “Well done, Meta; there’s nothing like old June in all the world! You may take my word for it, and I knew you would have the sense to find it out.”