She hurried, obedient, and pulled her low stool to his feet.
“Do you know, Greville, I was just longing to come in. I’ve had a letter about the little Emma. Oh, such a darling she’s getting. She’s very well and the mistress says the hair is growing so pretty on her forehead, and her nose isn’t near so snub as when I saw her. Her eyes are real blue and very pretty, and the mistress says she don’t speak near so countrified as she did. Won’t it be lovely if she grows up a pretty girl? Greville, don’t you think you would like to see her in the holidays? Don’t you? She’s so sensible!”
She turned herself against him like a caressing animal, softly winding about him until she got her head on his shoulder, and from that vantage point looked up.
If anything had been wanting to harden Greville it was that reference, that pretty plea. It foreshadowed most of what he had come to dread, and besides appeared a most unwarrantable piece of selfishness. He need indeed have very little consideration for any one who could show so little for him! And at a moment when he was exerting every power in her favour. But nothing of this escaped him.
“I have a letter from Pliny, Emma, and here’s one for you. He has thought of the most agreeable, the most useful plan for us, and how to be sufficiently grateful I am sure I don’t know. I’ll tell you first and then you shall read your letter.”
She subsided onto her stool, that she might look up with breathless interest.
“Do you remember when he was here how you said you longed to see Naples?”
“Don’t I! There’s hardly a day but I’ve thought of it!”
“Then here’s your invitation!” he held it, triumphant, just above her reach, smiling himself with pleasure.
“Oh, Greville—no! I can’t believe it!”