“If you prophesy Morrison’s cottage, Mr Paulby, you are right,” said Cynthia, merrily.
“Then I am right,” said the curate. “I have just come from there, and Mrs Morrison has been chatting about old times, and how she went all over the Continent with you.”
“She didn’t tell you about Cyril, I know,” said Cynthia to herself.
“I’m really very, very glad, ladies, that the rectory is inhabited again,” said the curate, “and I hope you will help me a great deal.”
“That indeed we will, Mr Paulby,” said Julia.
“Yes, and visit, and do needlework, and help in the schools, and everything,” said Cynthia, quickly. “And now we must say good-morning, Mr Paulby. Come, Julia.”
There was the customary hand-shaking and raising of the curate’s hat, and then they separated, the little plump rosy man looking very thoughtful as he made some observation to himself, and that observation was “Hah!” a remark that evidently meant a great deal.
“I’m not going to allow that, Ju,” said Cynthia, decidedly. “The little man is quite smitten with you, and if Frank or Cyril were to know—”
“Don’t be absurd!” said her sister, colouring a little.
“That would be as bad as Perry-Morton. Oh, here we are. Why, what a pretty little place Polly has got!”