Angela laid her hand again on Pen’s arm.
“Tell me your name,” she said.
“Pen, Penelope.”
“Penelope, what a grand old name. Have you got that wonderful perseverance that the real Penelope had? Will you be as faithful as she was?”
But Pen did not know the story of the real Penelope, nor did she ask. Angela’s hand seemed to draw her in some marvellous way.
“Look at me,” said Angela very gravely. “I must go in a few minutes. I wonder why I came to you instead of going straight to the front door. Your servant would have sent me away. But as I drew up my ponies at the front entrance, I saw a girl in the garden, and I thought I could bear this visit to the old place best if I came across the garden and spoke to the girl. And do you know, what is more, I hoped the girl would be you?”
“Did you?” said Pen, her black eyes dancing with a look of intense pleasure.
“I did, for you have such an honest face.”
“No, no; if you knew you wouldn’t say that. You wouldn’t speak to me. Angels would have nothing to do with me; but I can’t help it—oh, why did you come?”
“Tell me, dear; tell me.”