“Yes, my dear, and it makes my blood boil at times.”
“Oh, I don’t mean like that, Aunt, dear, for she is always gentle and kind and respectful too.”
“No, my dear, no,” cried Aunt Anne emphatically, “not to me. There, never mind that now, for I’ve something else to say. Did you see Sir Cheltnam down the garden?”
“Sir Cheltnam!” cried Isabel, changing colour. “Is he here?”
“Yes, my dear, and I told him you were down the garden.”
“Aunt! Oh, you should not have told him that. Is he there now?”
“I presume that he is, and really my dear child, I see no reason why you should be so disturbed. Of course a little maidenly diffidence is nice and becoming and—good gracious! child, don’t run away like that.”
But Isabel had reached the door and darted out, for, through the window came the faint crunch, crunch, of manly steps upon the gravel.
For, naturally enough, Sir Cheltnam’s quest had been in vain, as far as Isabel was concerned, but after looking about the lawn he had caught sight of someone seated beneath the drooping ash at one corner, and in the hope that it was she whom he sought, he had walked silently across the velvet grass to find that the heavy leafy screen was deceptive and that it was Alison leaning back in a garden-chair.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said, as he pulled aside the pendent boughs.