A mist had been gathering about her mental vision, and she staggered toward her bedside, once more to sink down and bury her burning face in her hands, for her emotion was greater than she could bear.
Chapter Twenty One.
“Silence gives Consent.”
“Oh, it’s you two again, is it?” said Miss Jerrold, in a tone of voice which might have been borrowed from her brother, as Stratton and Guest were shown up into her pretty little drawing room, where she sat ready to preside over her china tea tray with its quaint Sèvres cups and saucers and parcel gilt apostle spoons, while a tall stand was on her left with its bronze kettle humming and whispering, and uttering a pleasant coo now and then, as it felt the warm kisses of the spirit lamp.
Stratton’s brows contracted and a look of resentment darted from his eyes as he stopped short, but Guest laughed and said airily:
“Yes; it is your humble servant once again.”
“Well, and what do you want?”
“Hear that, Stratton?” said Guest. “A lady sends you her cards, ‘At home, Thursday, four to six;’ we go to the expense of new lavender kids—no, come what may, I will be truthful, mine are only freshly cleaned—and new hats—no, truth shall prevail! a gloss over from the hatter’s iron—drag ourselves all this way west to pay our devoirs—to drink tea out of thimbles, and eat slices of butter thinly sprinkled with bread crumbs, and the lady says, ‘What do you want?’”