“And she will bring up the roast potatoes in the napkin, my dear?”
“Yes,” cried Millicent, laughing merrily, “she has retracted all her opposition, and we are to have two dishes of papa’s best.”
“In napkins, my dear?” cried Mrs Luttrell eagerly; “both in napkins?”
“Yes, mamma, in the whitest napkins she can find.” She glanced at Christie Bayle’s grave countenance, and felt her heart smite her for being so happy and joyous in his presence.
“Don’t think us childish, Mr Bayle,” she said gently. “It is to please my father.”
He rose and stood by her side for a moment or two.
“Childish?” he said in a low voice, “as if I could think such a thing of you.”
Millicent smiled her thanks, and crossed the room to where Hallam was watching her. The next minute supper was again announced—simple, old-fashioned supper—and Millicent went out on Hallam’s arm.
“You are going to take me in, Mr Bayle? Well, I’m sure I’d rather,” said Mrs Luttrell, “and I can then see, my dear, that you have a good supper. There, I’m saying ‘my dear’ to you again.”
“It is because I seem so young, Mrs Luttrell,” replied Bayle gravely.