“Violet!” cried the young man, drawing suddenly back.
“Dicky—Mr Fanshawe!” cried the girl.
Then their hands met, and Patsy, behind the arras, wished that he were somewhere else.
“I knew you were coming,” he said.
“I knew you were here,” said she.
“How did you know?”
“The children told me that a Mr Fanshawe was here who was awfully jolly, and—very ugly, so I knew it must be you.”
“You did not get any of the letters I wrote to you,” he said. “My uncle wrote to me and told me frankly he had intercepted them, and if I wrote again he would put you in Chancery or some nonsense; he’s always blustering and bellowing—Violet!”
“Don’t, Dicky—don’t, Mr Fanshawe—some one may be looking, and your face is all mud.”
“So it is,” said Dicky, rubbing it and looking at his hand.