"Where? where?" my poor lady repeated, vague-like and turning her eyes so piteous at me that I looked the visitor straight in the face and getting between her and my mistress I said very calmly,
"I think Miss Winifred is in the children's garden, madam; shall I take the young ladies there?"
For my thought was to get the children out of the way, before it all came out, you see.
Oh, the look of gratitude she gave me! And yet it was a mad thing to do. But I couldn't desert her—I couldn't.
"There, you see, mamma!" cried the youngest, and the older one said,
"We can find our way, thank you," very civil, to me.
"Children have sharp eyes," said the lady, laughing. "One can't hide them from each other—haven't you found it so?"
"Now what the devil does she mean by that?" Hodges muttered to me as he passed by me with the tray. He always kept the silver perfect, and it did one's heart good to see his tray: urn and sugar and cream just twinkling and the toast in a covered dish—old Chelsea it was—and new cakes and jam and fresh butter, just as they have at home.
I don't know what they talked of, for I couldn't find any excuse to stop in the room, and she wouldn't have had it, anyway. I went around to the front to catch the children when they should come back, and quiet them, but they didn't come, and I was too thankful to think much about it.
After about half an hour I saw the oldest one coming slowly along by herself, looking very sulky.