"I shouldn't have accepted the invitation," he said, "upon my word I shouldn't, did I not know that you would have Judy to keep you company. You know I haven't that passion for children you have, and——"
The door was closed behind the two.
"Don't say any more," said Hilda, in a frightened sort of voice. "I told you I was glad that you were to have the pleasure. Now which bag will you take? Will the small Gladstone be large enough?"
Ten minutes later Quentyns had left the house in a hansom, and Hilda went up to Judy's room.
"Come downstairs, darling," she said, "we are to have another long evening all to ourselves. What a good thing I've got my sweet little sister to stay at home with me. Judy, this was to be a festive night, and I had quite a festive dinner prepared. Suppose we keep the occasion, although we are only to be by ourselves. You shall dine with me to-night, Judy, and we'll both dress for dinner. You shall wear white, for you look so sweet in white, and I'll do the same."
"Have you got the old India muslin dress that you used to wear at the Rectory before—before there was a Jasper?" said Judy, in a queer, steady kind of little voice. "If you have that old India muslin that father loved and Aunt Marjorie loved, and that Babs and I used always to say you looked like an angel in, will you put it on to-night, Hilda?—will you wear that dress once again?"
"What a queer thing!" replied Hilda. "I never threw the old muslin away. I think I can poke it out of some depths somewhere; and it is so soft that, if I shake it out and hang it up for about half an hour, it will be quite presentable. Yon funny Judy, why do you wish to see me in that dress?"
"You were all mine when you wore that dress last," said Judy.
"I am always yours, my dearest. But don't let us talk sentiment; let us make ourselves smart, and let us come downstairs and be happy. We'll imagine that we are at a very gay party; heaps and heaps of other people in the room, but we two, as is sometimes the case, are more or less alone in the crowd. We are so completely one that other people scarcely affect us. We can talk together, and whisper old secrets about the garden, and Babs, and the animals, and the organ in the church, and the funny chorister-boy who would never sing in tune; we can talk of all these things, although there are throngs and throngs around us, for in a crowd those who love each other often find the best sort of solitude. Come down, Judy, come down, and let's be happy!"
"How flushed you are, Hilda; are you well?"