Once, however, I did meet a look of sympathy from Mary. On the second Monday of the fortnight I was more anxious than ever to reach the end of my labours, and was in the court, accompanied by Charley, as early as eight o’clock. From the hall a dark passage led past the door of the dining-room to the garden. Through the dark tube of the passage we saw the bright green of a lovely bit of sward, and upon it Mary and Clara, radiant in white morning dresses. We joined them.
‘Here come the slave-drivers!’ remarked Clara.
‘Already!’ said Mary, in a low voice, which I thought had a tinge of dismay in its tone.
‘Never mind, Polly,’ said her companion—‘we’re not going to bow to their will and pleasure. We’ll have our walk in spite of them.’
As she spoke she threw a glance at us which seemed to say—‘You may come if you like;’ then turned to Mary with another which said—‘We shall see whether they prefer old books or young ladies.’
Charley looked at me—interrogatively.
‘Do as you like, Charley,’ I said.
‘I will do as you do,’ he answered.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I have no right—’
‘Oh! bother!’ said Clara. ‘You’re so magnificent always with your rights and wrongs! Are you coming, or are you not?’