It was a long time since she had visited at The Firs, for of late the thought of Moray Alleyne’s name and his observatory had produced a strange shrinking sensation in Glynne’s breast, and it was not until she had mentally accused herself of having behaved very badly to Lucy in neglecting her so much that she had made up her mind to drive over; but now that the girls did meet the greeting between them was very warm, and the embrace in which they indulged long and affectionate.
“Why, you look pale, Glynne, dear,” cried Lucy, forgetting her own troubles, in genuine delight at seeing her old friend as in the days of their great intimacy.
“And you, Lucy, you are quite thin,” retorted Glynne. “You are not ill?”
“Oh, no!” cried Lucy, laughing. “I was never better; but, really, Glynne, you don’t seem quite well.”
Glynne’s reply was as earnest an assurance that she never enjoyed better health than at that present moment; and as she made this assurance she was watching Lucy narrowly, and thinking that, on the strength of the rumours she had heard from time to time, she ought to be full of resentment and dislike for her old friend, while, strange to say, she felt nothing of the kind.
“Mamma will be so sorry that she was away, Glynne,” said Lucy at last, in the regular course of conversation. “She likes you so very much.”
“Does she?” said Glynne, dreamily.
“Oh yes; she talks about you a great deal, but Moray somehow never mentions your name.”
“Indeed!” said Glynne quietly, “why should he?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lucy, watching her anxiously, and wondering whether she knew how often Captain Rolph had met her out in the lanes, and by the common side. “He seemed to like you so very much, and to take such great interest in you when you used to meet.”