“‘Spiteful,’ was the word I almost said.”
“I thought you did say it!” The unrepentant one tiptoed over and kissed her.
“Well, if I did, I might better have kept my breath to cool my porridge, as the country folk say. My wise rebukes do not seem to benefit you in the least to-day.”
“Well, you mustn’t scold, for I baked Dom—I mean, Mr. Falcon’s cake, and it is a marvel of flavoured architecture. It looks like a new Parthenon—with raisin and fig filling.”
“Then no wonder you will not take reproof from me! And I suppose you would say I am an ungrateful old woman to attempt to scold you. Very well. You shall be as wicked as ever you please.”
“And when I have set all Roseborough by the ears, you will come and straighten things out for me?”
“Oh, surely!” She smiled.
“Hark! The first carriage wheels. It will be the Wellses. They always arrive first because they have farthest to come.” Rosamond ran to the verandah. “They are not very far ahead this evening, though; because Mrs. Witherby’s barouche is just behind.”
In a moment Mrs. Lee heard her exchanging good-evenings with the arrivals. Then Dr. Wells’s deliberate but hearty voice greeted her from the steps.
“Ah! there is Mrs. Lee. Well! Well! What an honour! Though, as the one man in Roseborough who is responsible for the health of the community—even as our Mrs. Witherby is responsible for its morals here, and the vicar for its status hereafter, te-he-he—I ought to order you home to bed at once. Anyone of your young years should be asleep at this hour, especially when you keep up the habit of rising at daybreak.”