“Weddings are a nuisance; they upset the household,” he said. “I wish all these people would go.”
“They are like the wasps,” said Bobby; “they’ll hang about so long as the grub’s there. I’ll go out and clear them off.”
He left the room by the window. Mr Graynor looked after him, and meeting Prudence’s eye, exchanged a smile with her.
“The assurance of youth!” he remarked. “You and I, we’ve had enough of them, Prue.” He regarded her again more attentively. “That blue dress is very becoming to you, my dear.”
Prudence flushed warmly. His appreciation recalled to her mind the light of admiration in the curate’s eyes, his quick hungry swoop towards her, the eager furtiveness of his kiss—the first time that a man’s lips had touched hers, other than the members of her family. But he belonged to the family in a sense—a wretched little hanger-on, catching at the overflow from the Graynor pockets.
“If it is becoming, I don’t believe you like it very well,” she said.
“It makes you look old—perhaps that’s why,” he answered, and thought with regret of the little girl who had given place to this tall and gracious young woman.