“I am so very glad! I had no notion I should see you out of your room.”
“Such is one’s self-importance! I thought the fame would have reached you at least.”
“Ah, you don’t know how little I see of any one I can hear from! And now I am afraid I have disturbed you too early.”
“Oh no, my dear; it was very good and kind, and I am only grieved that you had so long to wait; but we will make the most of each other now. You will stay to luncheon?”
“Thank you, indeed I am afraid I must not: papa would not like it, for no one knows where I am.”
“You have taken this long walk in the heat, and are going back! I don’t like it, my dear; you look fagged. London has not agreed with you.”
Mrs. Poynsett rang her little hand-bell, and ordered in biscuits and wine, and would have ordered the carriage but for Lenore’s urgent entreaties to the contrary, amounting to an admission that she wished her visit to be unnoticed at home. This was hardly settled before there was a knock at the door, announcing baby’s daily visit; and Miss Julia was exhibited by her grandmamma with great satisfaction until another interruption came, in a call from the doctor, who only looked in occasionally, and had fallen on this unfortunate morning.
“Most unlucky,” said Mrs. Poynsett. “I am afraid you will doubt about coming again, and I have not had one word about our Frankie.”
“He is very well. I saw him at a party the night before we left town. Good-bye, dear Mrs. Poynsett.”
“You will come again?”