“Come in, then,” he said.
“And I?” I asked, with a becoming air of diffidence.
“As I acted on your advice,” he answered, “you'd better see what you've done.”
We entered, and there, standing in the lamplight, we saw the cause of all this mischief. She was a little, slender figure with a pretty little oval face in which two very soft brown eyes made a mute appeal for sympathy. There was something about her air, something about her demure expression, something about the simplicity of her dress and the Puritan fashion in which she wore her hair, that gave one an indescribably quaint and old-fashioned impression, and this impression was altogether pleasant. When she opened her lips, and in a voice that, I know not how, heightened this effect, and with an expression of sweetness and contrition said, simply: “Daisy, what must you think?” I forgot all my worldly wisdom and was ready, if necessary, to egg her lover on to still more gallant courses Daisy herself, however, capitulated more tardily. She did not, as I hoped, rush into the charming little sinner's arms, but only answered, kindly, indeed, yet as if holding her judgment in reserve:
“I haven't heard what has happened yet.”
I gave a sign to Dick to be discreet in answering this inquiry, which he however read as merely calling attention to my presence.
“Oh, let me introduce Mr. d'Haricot—Miss Grey,” he said.
So she was still Aliss Grey—and they had fled together nearly four-and-twenty hours ago. I repeated my signal to be careful in making admissions.
“Where have you been?” said Daisy.
“I have some cousins—some cousins of my father's—in London,” Agnes answered. “I am staying with them.”