“What nonsense, Helen!” cried Grey, reproachfully. “You are always talking and thinking of such things as that. Miss Rosebury and Dr Bolter are very old friends.”
“That they are not. They never met till a few weeks ago; and perhaps, madam, the time may come when you will talk and think about such things as much as I.”
Certainly there was little more to justify Helen Perowne’s remark as the doctor and Miss Rosebury came along the garden path, unless the unusual flush in the lady’s cheek was the effect of the heat of the sun.
But Helen Perowne was right, nevertheless, for a strange tumult was going on in little Miss Rosebury’s breast.
She knew that Dr Bolter, although he had not said a word, was day by day becoming more and more impressive and almost tender in his way towards her.
He lowered his voice when he spoke, and was always so deeply concerned about her health, that more than once her heart had been guilty of so peculiar a flutter that she had been quite angry with herself; going to her own room, taking herself roundly to task, and asking whether, after living to beyond forty, she ought ever for a moment to dream of becoming different from what she was.
That very day, after feeling very much agitated by Dr Bolter’s gravely-tender salute at the gate, she was completely taken by surprise.
For towards evening, when the Reverend Arthur had asked Helen if she would take a turn round the garden, and that young lady had risen with graceful dignity, and asked Grey to be their companion, Miss Rosebury and the doctor were left in the drawing-room alone.
The little lady’s soul had risen in opposition to her brother’s request to Helen, and she had been about to rise and say that she too would go, when she was quite disarmed by Helen herself asking Grey to accompany them, and she sank back in her seat with a satisfied sigh.
“I declare the wicked thing is trying to lead poor Arthur on; and he is so weak and foolish that he might be brought to make himself uncomfortable about her.”