“Mr Bayle!” she cried, forbearing to smile as she saw his confusion. “I heard the noise and wondered what it could be.”
“I—I met your father,” he said, hastily adjusting the light; “he asked me to open the frames. A tiresome slug—”
“It was very kind of you,” she said, holding out her hand and pressing his in her frank, warm grasp, and full of eagerness to set him at his ease. “Papa will be so pleased that you have caught one of his enemies.”
“Thank you,” he said uneasily; “it is very kind of you.”—“I’m the most unlucky wretch under the sun, always making myself ridiculous before her,” he added to himself.
“Kind of me? No, of you, to come and take all that trouble.”—“Poor fellow!” she thought, “he fancies that I am going to laugh at him.”—“I’ve been so busy, Mr Bayle: I’ve copied out the whole of that duet. When are you coming in to try it over?”
“Do you wish me to try it with you?” he said rather coldly.
“Why, of course. There are no end of pretty little passages solo for the flute. We must have a good long practice together before we play in public.”
“You’re very kind and patient with me,” he said, as he gazed at the sweet calm face by his side.
“Nonsense,” she cried. “I’m cutting a few flowers for Miss Heathery; she is the most grateful recipient of a present of this kind that I know.”
They were walking back towards the house as she spoke, and from time to time Millicent stopped to snip off some flower, or to ask her companion to reach one that grew on high.