She tittered.
“Then I am glad you didn’t. They are both out, and auntie would have wondered who our late visitor was. She has just gone to bed.”
“But isn’t your—isn’t Mr. Herbert at home?”
“No; he is at the bazaar. He asked me to sit up until one of the maids returns.”
Again she approached the window. One foot rested on the threshold.
“I’ve been reading ‘Rokeby,’” ventured Martin.
“Do you like it?”
“It must be very interesting when you know the place. Just imagine how nice it would be if Sir Walter had seen Elmsdale and written about the moor, and the river, and the ghylls.”
“Do you think he would have found a wildcat in Thor ghyll?”