“We always have the gate locked at dusk,” said Lucy, “the place stands so lonely, and—”
“You feel a little nervous,” said Oldroyd, smiling, as they walked up to the house.
“Oh, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “I never think there is anything to mind, but the maid is terribly alarmed lest we should be attacked by night. My brother is out,” she hastened to say, to fill up a rather awkward pause. “He is taking one of your prescriptions,” she added, archly.
“Wise man,” cried Oldroyd, as they passed round to the front door and went in. “I suppose he will not be long?”
“Oh, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “if you will come in and wait, he is sure to be back soon.”
Then she hesitated, and hastened to speak again, feeling quite uncomfortable and guilty, as if she had been saying something unmaidenly—as if she had been displaying an eagerness for the young doctor to stop—when all the time she told herself, it was perfectly immaterial, and she did not care in the least.
“Of course I can’t be sure,” she added, growing a little quicker of speech; “but I think he will not be long. He has gone round by the pine wood.”
“Then I should meet him if I went that way,” said Oldroyd, who had also become rather awkward and hesitant.
“Oh, yes; I think you would be sure to meet him,” cried Lucy eagerly.
“Thanks,” said Oldroyd, who felt rather vexed that she should be eager to get rid of him; “then perhaps I had better go.”