“You took a walk with Mr. Trevor?”
“Yes, a tiresome one,” he answered.
“Where?”
“All about and round that stupid Warren—six or seven miles,” answered William.
“How very fatiguing!” exclaimed Violet, compassionately, as if to herself.
“No, not the exercise; that was the only thing that made it endurable,” answered William, a little crossly. “But the place is uglier than I fancied, and Trevor is such a donkey.”
Aunt Dinah, with her eyes fixed on William’s, made a nod and a frown, to arrest that line of remark, which, she felt, might possibly prejudice Vi, and could do no possible good. And Miss Vi, looking all the time on the wing of the chicken on her plate, said, “The salt, please,” and nothing more.
“Vi, my dear,” said Miss Perfect, endeavouring to be cheery, “he asked my leave last Sunday to send you an Italian greyhound. He has two, he says, at Revington. Did he mention it to-day?”
“Perhaps he did. I really forget,” said Miss Vi, carelessly, laying down her fork, and leaning back, with a languid defiance, for as she raised her eyes, she perceived that William was smiling.
“I know what you mean,” she said, with a sudden directness to William. “You want me—that is, I think you want me to think you think—”