“You—asked—him—to come!” To the Spencers it was as if she had taken one of the big black wheels from the mills and suggested its desirability for the drawing-room. “You asked him to come!”
Was there a slight lifting of the delicately moulded chin opposite?—the least possible dilation of the sensitive nostrils? Perhaps. Yet Margaret’s voice when she answered, was clear and sweet.
“Yes. I told him that Hilcrest would always welcome my friends, I was sure. And—wasn’t I right?”
“Of course—certainly,” three almost inaudible voices had murmured. And that had been the end of it, except that the two brothers and the sister had talked it over in low distressed voices after Margaret had gone up-stairs to bed.
Two weeks had passed now, however, since that memorable night, and the veranda of Hilcrest had not yet echoed to the sound of young McGinnis’s feet. The Spencers breathed a little more freely in consequence. It might be possible, after all, thought they, that McGinnis had some sense!—and the emphasis was eloquent.
CHAPTER XXIII
Miss Kendall was sitting alone before the great fireplace in the hall at Hilcrest when Betty, the parlor maid, found her. Betty’s nose, always inclined to an upward tilt, was even more disdainful than usual this morning. In fact, Betty’s whole self from cap to dainty shoes radiated strong disapproval.
“There’s a young person—a very impertinent young person at the side door, Miss, who insists upon seeing you,” she said severely.
“Me? Seeing me? Who is it, Betty?”
“I don’t know, Miss. She looks like a mill girl.” Even Betty’s voice seemed to shrink from the “mill” as if it feared contamination.