"It will only make you more unhappy."
"Oh, no. I think not. It will do her good," says Joyce, anxiously.
"Where is the letter? I hardly saw it. Who is asked?" demands Barbara feverishly.
"Nobody in particular, except you. My father has expressed a wish that we should occupy that house of his in Harley street for the winter months, and my mother puts in, accidentally as it were, that she would like to see the children. But you are the one specially alluded to."
"They are too kind!" says Barbara rather unkindly to herself.
"I quite see it in your light. It is an absolute impertinence," says Monkton, with a suppressed sigh. "I allow all that. In fact, I am with you, Barbara, all through: why keep me thinking about it? Put it out of your head. It requires nothing more than a polite refusal."
"I shall hate to make it polite," says Barbara. And then, recurring to her first and sure knowledge of his secret desires, "you want to go to them?"
"I shall never go without you," returns he gravely.
"Ah! that is almost a challenge," says she, flushing.
"Barbara! perhaps he is right," says Joyce, gently; as she speaks she gets up from the fire and makes her way to the door, and from that to her own room.