The bell at this moment seemed to tinkle a satire on their hopes, and Millie’s heart gave such a throb that she sent a guilty glance at Mrs Ravenhill, feeling as if she had betrayed herself. Mrs Ravenhill lifted her eyebrows by way of asking who it could be; they heard a quick step, not the step of a servant, the door was opened impetuously, and the next moment a girl was kissing Millie, and uttering disconnected interjections.
“Fanny!” cried Mrs Ravenhill, “I thought you were in Scotland.”
“And I thought you were in Norway, and came just to find out your address. The luck of it! When did you come? Where do you come from? Do you stay?”
“Yesterday, from Norway, and to stay. Put you? You in London in August!”
“For my sins, I said as I came along, but with you here it has already lost its penitential aspect, and I don’t think half so meanly of myself. That’s the worst of goodness. A reaction comes.”
She dragged Millie down beside her on a settee, both hands clasping her arm; she looked a child, not quite what is called pretty, but sparkling with fun and life, her eyes grey Irish, with a fringe of dark lashes. These eyes eagerly devoured the other girl’s face. It was an old habit, and Millie used to present herself smilingly for inspection.
“Well?”
“Well,—oh, you needn’t tell me you’ve enjoyed yourself, for of course you have,” she said musingly.
“In spite of horrid crossings,” put in Mrs Ravenhill.
“Were they horrid?”