“Yes, sir,” said Dally, and her blackcurrant eyes gave a malicious twinkle.
“Oh, how I should like to know,” she muttered to herself, as she left the room.
“It’s so tiresome,” exclaimed Salis testily; “busy as I am this morning—letters to write. I must answer this last letter of May’s. More complaints—more complaints! Oh, what a wretched curate he has got!”
Mary looked up from her seat, with her gentle smile, for she knew how the harsh crystals of annoyance would melt away with the first cup of tea, and her brother be all smiles again.
“Wouldn’t you like to begin, dear?”
“Begin? Without Leo! You know, Mary, how particular she is, and how she would feel it as a slight. Tut—tut—tut! How late she is! Mrs Berens, too, been writing. Do you know, Mary, I wish that woman would leave the place!”
“She is not likely to, Hartley,” said Mary, who was propped up with cushions at the head of the table, having lately taken her old place once more; “and she is very kind and good.”
“Yes, that’s the worst of it,” said Salis grimly. “If she were a disagreeable old harridan, it would not matter so much. Oh! here she comes.”
Leo came quickly into the breakfast-room, looking strained about the eyes, to cross to Mary, put down her right cheek to be kissed, and then to go to her brother, extend him her hand, and lower her left cheek for a second salute.
“That’s right, dear,” said Salis cheerily; “but you are terribly late. I’m so busy this morning.”