“Oh, my gracious!”
Looking up, he found himself face to face with dumpy, chubby Dame Beckley, staring vacantly astounded, in her spectacles and garden-gloves, her basket having dropped from her hand.
“I—beg—I—”
“Oh, Sir Mark!” exclaimed the lady, angrily; and then, catching her daughter’s eye, she went on in a trembling, fluttering way; “I never thought—I couldn’t see—I really—Oh, dear me; how do you do, Sir Mark? I—I—I am glad to see you back.”
He held out his hand, smiling in her face the while, and in her confusion Dame Beckley placed therein a little trowel, making him start. Then, starting herself, she grew more confused, and snatched the trowel away, dropped it, and nearly struck her head against the visitor, as he stooped quickly to pick up the fallen tool.
“I beg your pardon, Sir Mark,” she stammered, as she finally succeeded in getting trowel and garden-gloves comfortably settled in the basket, a frown from her daughter hastening her pace.
“Sir Mark was coming with me to see you in the simple-garden, mother,” said Mistress Anne, calmly enough. “Will you show him some of your choicest plants?”
“Oh, yes, child, if I—that is—bless me, I hardly know what I am saying. This way, Sir Mark, this way,” and turning abruptly she led the little party down the garden.
Sir Mark pressed Mistress Anne’s hand, and gave her a meaning look and smile, but he was disconcerted to find his companion’s face as innocent and guileless-looking as her limpid eyes.
“Confound it all,” he muttered; “I must not trifle with her, or I shall break the poor girl’s heart.”