“She has gone up-stairs, I think,” said Luke.
“To put her hair straight or some nonsense, when we are that busy that we shall never be ready in time.”
“No, no, Mrs Portlock,” said Luke, who looked hot and nervous, and instead of taking a chair by the fire, he edged away to stand by the crockery-covered dresser, with his back half turned from the light; “I think she has gone up-stairs on account of what I wanted to say.”
“There, there, there,” said Mrs Portlock, labouring frantically now at the egg-beating, “I think I know what’s coming, and I’d a deal rather you wouldn’t say a word to me about it.”
Luke Ross looked discomfited and troubled, and became exceedingly interested for a moment in the little silk band of his soft felt hat.
“But surely, Mrs Portlock,” he began at last, “you must have known that I was deeply attached to Sage?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I did,” replied Mrs Portlock; and this time some of the yellow egg flew over the basin side; “but it’s a very serious matter.”
“Indeed, yes,” said Luke, quietly, “I look upon it as the turning-point of my life.”
“And I don’t believe that Sage half knows her own mind yet. She’s too young, and it’s not as if she was my own child.”
“But we can wait, Mrs Portlock,” said Luke, gaining confidence, now that he had made the first plunge. “Of course we should have to wait for some time.”