“Poor girl,” he muttered. “But, no, it’s nonsense. She can’t think it. Absurd! She’s so young—so ill. There, it’s childish, and I should be a vain fool if I thought so.”
He stood thinking for a few moments, and as he paused there was the rattle of wheels in the street, and Sam Jenkles drove his hansom to the door and stopped, gave the horse in charge of a boy, and went in.
The next minute Richard had crossed too, for a plan had been formed on the instant.
Mrs Jenkles met him at the door, and at his wish led him to where Sam was seated at a table, hurriedly discussing a hot meal.
“Drops in, sir, if ever I drives a fare in this direction, and the missus generally has a snack for me. Eh, sir? Oh no, sir. All right, I’ll wait,” he said, in answer to a question or two.
And then Richard ascended the stairs, knocked and entered, to find that mother and daughter had just risen from their needlework, Mrs Lane to look grave, Netta with a bright look in her eyes, and too vivid a red in either cheek.
“Ah, you busy people,” he said, cheerily, “what an example you do set me! How’s our little friend to-day?”
The bright look of joy in Netta’s face faded slightly as she heard their visitor speak of her as he would of some child, but there was a happy, contented aspect once more as she placed her hand in his, and felt his frank pressure.
“Mrs Lane,” said Richard, speaking gaily, “I’m like the little boy in the story—I’m idle, and want some one to come and play with me, but I hope for better luck than he.”
Mother and daughter looked at him wonderingly.