They returned into the salon together. It was full of the perfume of roses, of the wavering shadow of leaves on the floor and walls and ceiling. It looked bright and pretty, and madame, with suave benignity, explained: "I told Mr. Musgrave that it was better to wait here, and not play hide-and-seek; Bessie was sure to come soon."
"I saw you in the cathedral, Harry; you passed close by me. It was so difficult not to cry out!"
"You saw me in the cathedral, and did not run up to me? Oh, Bessie!"
"There were two other gentlemen with you." Bessie, though conscious of her wickedness, saw no harm in extenuating it.
"If there had been twenty, what matter? Would I have let you pass me? If I had not found courage to seek you here—and it required some courage, and some perseverance, too—why, I should have missed you altogether."
Bessie laughed: here were they sparring as if they had parted no longer ago than yesterday! Then she blushed, and all at once they came to themselves, and began to be graver and more restrained.
"My friends are Fordyce and Craik; they have gone to study the Tapestry. I said I would look in at it later with you, Bessie: I counted on you for my guide," announced Harry with native assurance.
Bessie launched a supplicatory glance at madame, then hazarded a doubtful consent, which did not provoke a denial. After that they moved to the garden-end of the salon, and seated themselves in friendly proximity. Then Bessie asked to be told all about them at home. All about them was not a long story. The doctor's family had not arrived at the era of dispersion and changes; the three years that had been so long, full, and important to Bessie had passed in his house like three monotonous days. The same at Brook.
"The fathers and mothers, yours and mine, are not an hour altered," Harry Musgrave said. "The boys are grown. Jack is a sturdy little ruffian, as you might expect; no boy in the Forest runs through so many clothes as Jack—that's the complaint. There is a talk of sending him to sea, and he is deep in Marryat's novels for preparation."
"Poor Jack, he was a sad Pickle, but so affectionate! And Willie and the others?" queried Bessie rather mournfully.