“Yes. How well he looks. But why did you want to see me?”
For answer Claire took her sister’s hand, led her to the chintz-covered sofa, and seated herself beside her, with her arm round May’s waist.
“Oh, do be careful, Claire,” said Mrs Burnett pettishly; “this is my lute-string. And, my dear, how wretchedly you do dress in a morning.”
“It is good enough for home, dear, and we are obliged to be so careful. May dear, I hardly like to ask you, but could you spare me a guinea or two?”
“Spare you a guinea or two? Why, bless the child! what can you want with a guinea or two?”
“I want it for Morton. There are several things he needs so much, and I want besides to be able to let him have a little pocket-money when he asks.”
“Oh, really, I cannot, Claire. It is quite out of the question. Frank keeps me so dreadfully short. You would never believe what trouble I have to get a few guineas from him when I am going out, and there is so much play now that one is compelled to have a little to lose. But I must be off. I have some shopping to do, and a call or two to make besides. Then there is a book to get at Miss Clode’s. I won’t ask you to come for a drive this morning.”
“No, dear, don’t. But stay a few minutes; I have something to say to you.”
“Now, whatever can you have to say, Claire dear? Nothing about that—that—oh, don’t, pray. I could not bear it. All the resolution I had was needed to come here at all, and, as I told you in my letter, it was impossible for me to come before. Frank would not let me.”
“I want to talk to you very—very seriously.”