“Has your visitor gone?” asked Annie, not noticing the tone.
“Yes. He returned to London by the 5.30.”
Leslie wondered that Annie did not take alarm when she heard that her visitor had come from London; but the possibility of Mr. Parker’s appearing at Wingfield had evidently never entered her brain. She turned another page of her novel, and read on contentedly.
“How good it is to have a whole afternoon’s real rest,” she said; “and this book is splendid. By the way, have you read it—‘The Caxtons,’ by Bulwer Lytton?”
“Yes; I have read it,” replied Leslie in a low voice.
“Don’t you want to make any tea this afternoon?” said Annie. “I am so thirsty.”
“I don’t care about tea to-night,” replied Leslie.
“We shall be going down to dinner in less than an hour.”
Annie stifled a sigh, and once more resumed her book. Leslie went and sat with her back to her. She took up a book, but she could not read. As a rule, it was Leslie’s task and privilege to get tea for them both. Annie missed her companion’s gentle attentions. After a minute or two she tumbled down from her seat on the window-sill, and began in a perfunctory manner to get ready for dinner.
Leslie also rose, shook out her dress, put on a fresh tie and collar, and smoothed her hair.