“How-do-you-do, Mrs. Atterton?” he heard himself saying in a voice that sounded queerly unfamiliar.
“And you’ve brought me those roses? How sweet of you,” said Mrs. Atterton in her good-natured way, thinking he was shy and wanted helping out. “I love roses!” She glanced round with the eye of the born hostess. “Will you take Miss Banks in to tea? Mr. Deane of Gaythorpe—Miss Banks, the daughter of Mr. Banks, the Rector of Millsby.”
“Oh, Mr. Deane and I are quite old friends,” said Miss Banks with animation.
“Delighted,” said Andy.
And half an hour later he came back to the room to find his roses wilting on a side-table and Elizabeth absent.
“I hope your daughters are quite well?” he remarked wistfully to Mr. Atterton, whom he encountered on the lawn.
“Oh yes. Norah’s away and Elizabeth is playing tennis in the lower court, I expect,” said Mr. Atterton carelessly, as if he were speaking of any ordinary girl.
“Miss Elizabeth plays very well, doesn’t she?” said Andy.
“No ... rotten service,” said Mr. Atterton, and Andy felt he did not deserve to have such a daughter.
“I suppose the lower court is over there?” suggested Andy.