Crossjay howled in contempt. "Next to Clara, my favourite's Lucy," he said.
"I thought Clara came next to Nelson," said she; "and a long way off too, if you're not going to be a landlubber."
"I'm not going to be a landlubber. Miss Middleton, you may be absolutely positive on your solemn word."
"You're getting to talk like one a little now and then, Crossjay."
"Then I won't talk at all."
He stuck to his resolution for one whole minute.
Clara hoped that on this morning of a doubtful though imperative venture she had done some good.
They walked fast to cover the distance to the village post-office, and back before the breakfast hour: and they had plenty of time, arriving too early for the opening of the door, so that Crossjay began to dance with an appetite, and was despatched to besiege a bakery. Clara felt lonely without him: apprehensively timid in the shuttered, unmoving village street. She was glad of his return. When at last her letter was handed to her, on the testimony of the postman that she was the lawful applicant, Crossjay and she put out on a sharp trot to be back at the Hall in good time. She took a swallowing glance of the first page of Lucy's writing:
"Telegraph, and I will meet you. I will supply you with everything you can want for the two nights, if you cannot stop longer."
That was the gist of the letter. A second, less voracious, glance at it along the road brought sweetness:—Lucy wrote: