“Why did you not begin?” said Leo, as she languidly took her place.
“Without you? Not likely. Pour out, Mary, dear. Why, Leo—not well?”
“Not well?” she said, repeating his words calmly enough. “I am quite well, dear.”
“But you look—”
“As if I had overslept myself,” said Leo quietly. “Any letters?”
“Yes. One sent on by Mrs Berens about the parish poor. Must bring that up this morning. One from May. That wicked old man! I know he keeps on with this persecution—there, I can call it nothing else—on purpose to get me to resign.”
“And you will not resign, Hartley,” said Leo; “you will set him at defiance.”
“I don’t know. I do love a quiet life, and I cannot get it. Now, here’s this morning. Letters to write—more tea, Mary. Ten-o’clock meeting in the vestry.”
“Ah!”
“Why, Leo, dear!” cried the curate, half starting from his chair, while Mary gazed wonderingly at her sister.