“Do you know, I met Leslie Tempest.”
“Oh,” said mother tentatively, “Did he come along with you?”
“He did not look at me.”
“Oh!” exclaimed mother, and it was speaking volumes; then, after a moment, she resumed:
“Perhaps he did not see you.”
“Or was it a stony Britisher?” I asked.
“He saw me,” declared Lettie, “or he wouldn’t have made such a babyish show of being delighted with Margaret Raymond.”
“It may have been no show—he still may not have seen you.”
“I felt at once that he had; I could see his animation was extravagant. He need not have troubled himself, I was not going to run after him.”
“You seem very cross,” said I.