"Lady Carrington has asked me to stay here, and I should like to do it," I replied; "I am not going to wear any of the clothes she bought—no, not one, not one! But if you would come to see me to-morrow evening, perhaps we might have one long, last chat together. That is what I really wanted to ask you. Will you promise me, Dad?"
"Dear me, how afflicting!" said my father. "How afflicting and sentimental and unnecessary—and after all I have lived through! I didn't know you'd grow up that sort of child; you were such a jolly little thing when I took you down to your aunt. It's your aunt who has spoilt you. You can stay here, of course, if you prefer this house to the Westminster. Helen won't like it; she has got a box for us at the opera to-night."
"I can't go," I said.
"Very well. She would hate to see a dismal child, and your clothes won't be ready for a day or two—at least, most of them—so perhaps you had better stay here. I'll just go and speak to Lady Carrington."
Father left the room. By and by Lady Carrington came back alone.
"They've gone, dear," she said, "and I have made arrangements with Major Grayson that you are to stay with us during the honeymoon, so that altogether you will be with us for quite a month, my child. Now, during that month I want you to be happy and to make the best of things. Do you hear me?"
"Yes. I think I shall be happy with you. But oh! I have got a blow—I have got a blow!" I said.
CHAPTER VII
Father did not come to see me on Saturday night, although I hoped against hope that he would do so, but, to my great surprise, on Sunday evening he walked in, just as Lady Carrington was preparing to go out to evening service. I had refused to accompany her—I am afraid I made myself unpleasant to my kind friend on that occasion. I was overcome by the shock I had received, and this fresh and most unexpected parting from father, so that I could only centre my thoughts on myself.