“Naughty Pepine, come here directly!”
Then through the trees he caught a glimpse of a lavender dress gracefully draping an iron seat.
It was not the dog that made Frank Pratt flee with rapid strides, till a thought made him check his steps.
“Suppose some one else was walking there!”
In the hope that it might be possible, Pratt went slowly on, taking advantage of every break in the trees to peer anxiously through the railings, seeing, however, nothing but nursemaids in charge of naughty children, whom it was necessary to correct by screwing their arms at the sockets—a beneficial practice, no doubt, but whose good was not apparent at the time. There was a perambulator being propelled by a nursemaid reading the Family Herald, while the two children it contained were fast asleep—one hanging forward, sustained by a strap, and looking like a fat Punch in a state of congestion; the other leaning over the side, and having a red place ground in its ear by the perambulator wheel. Farther on there were more children, playing alone at throwing dirt, their protectress being engaged in a flirtation with a butcher in blue with a round, bullet head, whose well-oiled hair shone in the afternoon sun.
Pratt walked on, getting hopeless as he progressed, for soon he would come within range of Pepine, and perhaps be discovered when—What was that?
A sharp, short little cough that could be no other than Fin’s; and there, through the trees, were she and her sister, Tiny resting on Fin’s arm, and walking very slowly.
There was an opening in the shrubs farther on; and hurrying to this, though it was dangerously near Pepine and Aunt Matty, Pratt waited the coming of the sisters.
Alas, for human hopes!—they had turned back, and he had to hurry after them for some distance before he could find an opening sufficiently clear to display his figure, when he hazarded a cough; and on Fin looking sharply round, he followed it up with a “How d’ye do, Miss Rea?”
“It’s Mr Pratt!” he heard Fin whisper. And then came back a quiet response.