'Yes, it is,' said Hermie; 'why shouldn't it be?'
'Oh, my love, my love! It is hardly half an hour. I thought two hours, at the least. My dear, my love, no one disturbed you? Oh, my love, don't tell me Roly and Floss got loose?'
'I don't know what you mean,' Hermie said shortly, 'but I can't help thinking it is rather ridiculous to keep those children sitting there. They ought to be in bed. I am going to bed.'
'To bed—my love—my dear!' gasped Miss Browne. 'Where is he?'
'Where is who?' asked Hermie impatiently.
'M-M-Mr. M-Mortimer Stevenson,' said Miss Browne in a whisper.
Hermie had her secret to hide.
'What should I know about Mr. Stevenson?' she said coldly. 'I presume he has gone home.'
Gone home! All could not have gone well and happily in half an hour! Miss Browne grew quite pale.
Such a sweet half-hour it had been for her! For twenty minutes of it she had thought of nothing but the white light of love that was going to flood Hermie's life. But during the last ten minutes there had come to her a thought of the material advantages that would accrue to the girl—Stevenson would have four or five thousand a year at his father's death. It had been very sweet to sit and think of dear little flower-faced Hermie lifted for ever above the sordid cares of wretched housekeeping.