“Do you always walk like this—within prison bars?” said Pratt, walking on parallel with them.
“It can’t be prison when one holds the keys, Mr Pratt,” said Fin, sharply.
“You’ll let me shake hands?” he said, after a pause. “I never see you now.”
“How can you?” said Fin, sharply, “when you never call.”
“What was the use of my calling, when your servant could only speak me one speech?” said Pratt.
“And pray, what was that?” said Fin, with her nose in the air. “Not at home.”
Fin gave her foot a little stamp on the gravel, and whispered to her sister. By this time they had reached the gate, just as a nursemaid unlocked it to pass through with her charge.
“Thanks,” said Pratt, quietly. And, walking in, he was the next moment with Fin and her sister; the former looking defiant, and half drawing back her hand, the latter so pale and ill that, forgetting Fin, Pratt took both her hands affectionately, as, with a husky voice, he exclaimed—
“My dear Miss Rea, I didn’t know you had been so ill.”
Tiny answered with a gentle smile; and Fin, who had been setting up all the thorns about her, ready to tear and lacerate this intruder, now looked quite humid of eye, and shook hands warmly.