“Oh, Miss Florence, what shall we do?” said Violante, rather timidly.
“My new hat!” exclaimed one girl.
“It’s going to pour,” said another.
“We must run across to the station,” said Flossy, “or down to Cooper’s, as my sister said.”
As they stood for a moment hesitating which way to turn, they were suddenly accosted.
“Flossy! There’s going to be a great storm. Come in with me. You will all be wet through,” and Arthur hurried up to them.
“The station—Mary,” murmured Flossy.
“The station? Nonsense! you’ll all be drenched. I’ll send after Miss Venning. Come, Flossy, don’t drown your flock from a sense of propriety. I’m sure Mademoiselle Mattei doesn’t like thunder.”
The gay voice, the familiar address, chased away half Flossy’s fears and sentiments. She laughed and yielded, and they hurried through the plashing rain-drops across the road and into the Bank House—unknown ground to them all.
“Come upstairs,” said Arthur, and he led the way into his grandmother’s drawing-room, into which for the sake of coolness he had lately penetrated.