“Nothing of the sort,” exclaimed Charley. “Let her knock until she’s tired of knocking.”
The door was shaken violently. We heard a woman’s voice calling and calling.
“Charley, I must go,” I said. “I cannot eat anything. Poor old Hannah! Oh, do let me open the door!”
“When the feast is over we’ll cook a little supper for her, and bring her in and set her down in front of the fire, and make her eat it,” said Von Marlo. “Now, that will do, won’t it? Sit down and eat your nice, hot supper,” he continued, looking attentively at me with his honest brown eyes.
I coloured and looked at him. It was so pleasant to have eyes glancing at you that did not disapprove of you all the time.
Von Marlo drew a chair close to the table for me, and placed another near it for himself, and we ate heartily—yes, heartily—to the accompaniment of Hannah’s knocks and shrieks and screams to us to let her out of her prison.
By-and-by the meal came to an end, and then it was Von Marlo himself who went to the door. We three, we Grants, were sufficiently cowardly to remain in the parlour. By-and-by Von Marlo reappeared, leading Hannah. Hannah had been reduced to tears. He had her hand on his arm, and was conducting her into the parlour with all the grace with which he would conduct a duchess or any other person of title.
“Here’s your supper,” he said. “Sit here; you must be very cold. Sit near the fire and eat, eat.”
She sat down, but she did not eat.