The faint “Oh!” that escaped from Sir Thomas Beckley’s lips must have been caused by a twinge of gout, for he did not venture to speak when he caught his daughter’s eye.
“Will you not come and see my mother, Sir Mark?” continued Anne, sweetly. “She is down in her simple-garden, by the southern wall.”
“I shall be delighted,” was the reply; and rising, he escorted the lady out through an open bay window, and along the closely-shaven lawn.
“Anne means to marry him,” said Sir Thomas, gazing after his daughter, and rubbing his nose in a vexed manner. “What a smooth, soft puss it is! Who’d think she had such claws?”
“She’s innocence itself,” said Sir Mark to himself, as he twisted his moustache-points, and smiled down tenderly at his companion, who blushed and trembled and faltered when he spoke to her, as naturally as a simple-hearted girl who had been longing for his return. “By all the gods it would be much easier work to make up matters here!”
“Let me run on, and tell my mother you have come, Sir Mark,” said Anne, ingenuously.
“Nay, nay,” said the guest, pressing the trembling little white hand he took; “I have not many hours to stay.”
“Oh!” cried Anne, gazing with piteous wide open eyes. “You are not going away to-day?”
“In two hours’ time, sweet, I must be on the road to London. Must—I must.”
To give Anne credit for her efforts, she tried very hard to squeeze two little tears out of the corners of her eyes; but they were obstinate, and refused to come. She heaved a deep sigh, though, and gazed sadly down at her little silk shoes, as they toddled over the short grass, her heels being packed up on the bases of a couple of inverted pyramids, which just allowed her toes to reach the ground.