“And a wife,” said Lucy, with a mirthful look.
“And a wife,” said Oldroyd, gravely; and he gazed so intently at Lucy that her merry look passed away, and she coloured slightly, and glanced hastily at her mother.
“We must make Moray go out more, mamma dear,” she said hurriedly. “I’ll coax him to have walks with me, and I’ll teach him botany; Major Day would be delighted if he’d come with him—I mean go with him; and—oh, I say, mamma, isn’t dinner nearly ready? I am so hungry.”
“Lucy!” cried Mrs Alleyne, with a reproachful look, as Oldroyd rose.
“It is an enviable sensation, Miss Alleyne,” he said, as a diversion to the elder lady’s annoyance; “one of nature’s greatest boons. As I was saying, Mrs Alleyne, à propos of your son, he neglects his health in his scientific pursuits, and the beautifully complicated machine of his system grows rusty. Why, the commonest piece of mechanism will not go well if it is not properly cared for, so how can we expect it of ourselves.”
“Quite true, Mr Oldroyd. Did you ride over? Is your horse waiting?”
“Oh, no, I walked. Lovely weather, Miss Alleyne. Good-day, madam, good-day.”
“But you have not taken any refreshment, Mr Oldroyd. Allow me to—”
“Why, dinner must be ready, mamma,” said Lucy. “Will not Mr Oldroyd stop?”
“Of course, yes, I had forgotten,” said Mrs Alleyne, with a slight colour in her cheek, and a peculiar hesitancy in her voice. “We—er—dine early—if you would join us, we should be very glad.”