“Antony,” she said, as the tea was brought in, “you will soon have to go, now, and I have not written the answer to the letter you brought.”
“No, Miss Carr,” I said; and I could have added, “neither have you read it.”
“It is too late, of course, for you to take an answer back, so I shall send one by post. Do not be alarmed,” she said, smiling, as she divined my thoughts; “no one will be angry with you for staying here. It was my wish.”
“And your wish would be law with Mr Lister,” I thought.
“I shall expect you to write to me,” she continued, “and set down any books you require. Do not be afraid to ask for them. I will either lend or buy them for you.”
She was pouring out the tea as she spoke, and I took the cup from her hand, watching her thoughtfully the while, for she seemed to have grown strange and quiet during the last few hours; and it set me wondering whether she would ever be so kind to me again. In fact, I thought I must have done something to offend her.
That thought was chased away after tea, when we both rose, and she held out her hands to me with a very sweet smile, which told me the time had arrived when I must go.
“And now, Antony, you must come and see me again, often. Good-bye.”
I could not speak, but stood clinging to her hands for a few minutes.
“Don’t think me foolish,” I said, at last; “but it has seemed so strange—you have been so kind—I don’t know why—I have not deserved it.”