“I—I didn’t know you’d be so glad to see me,” said Pratt, flushing with pleasure.
“I didn’t say I was,” said Fin, archly.
“You looked so,” it was on Pratt’s lips to say; but he checked it, and they strolled on—away from Aunt Matty, after Fin had mischievously proposed that Pratt should go and see her—till Tiny complained of fatigue and sat down.
Here was an opportunity not to be lost; and, after a little solicitation, Fin consented to leave her sister and walk on, conditionally that they kept in sight.
Pratt, on the strength of his prosperity, had determined to sound his little companion; but before they had gone a dozen yards, he found that his own affairs were to be of no account.
“What’s become of that wretch of a friend of yours?” said Fin, sharply.
“Do you mean Sir Felix Landells?” said Pratt, borrowing a shaft from her own quiver.
“No, I don’t,” said Fin, flushing scarlet, “nor any such silly donkey, I mean—”
Pratt would have gone down on his knees in the gravel, only there was a nursemaid close by, and a big, fat child was sucking its thumb, and staring at them; but he burst out, in a husky voice—
“Oh, Miss Rea—Finetta—pray, pray say that again.”