“Morris certainly has inherited my sense of humour,” she observed pensively.
“Why, the other day he laughed so much at one of those stupid dialect imitations of mine, that I simply had to stop and chuckle myself. It was too infectious,” cried Bertie, with a laugh at the recollection.
“Poor boy!” smiled Nina tolerantly, and leaving it uncertain whether or not she was pitying Morris for his easy appreciation of Cornish rusticisms as rendered by Mrs. Tregaskis. “But, seriously, Bertie dear, it would be no bad thing if later on they are both in earnest—only just at present I think we’d better be hard-hearted, and not let it come to anything definite.”
“It’s unlucky that visit of ours having fallen through,” observed Bertha thoughtfully. “It keeps us here for another ten days before the Scotch visits, and I can’t very well forbid Morris to come to the house.”
“He’s there morning, noon, and night, I’m afraid,” sighed Nina.
“Oh, well, I flatter myself that I know how to manage a youngster of his age. I’ll see if I can’t get an opportunity to make Master Morris see reason.”
The opportunity was ahead of her.
At Porthlew Rosamund, coming downstairs, saw Morris wandering aimlessly round the hall.
At the sound of her footfall he looked up, and came towards her, impetuous and good-looking.
“Oh, Morris!” she cried.