Leo thanked her, and had had a very pleasant time. She had seen Mr. Butts about, but only to speak to on one occasion.
He had not called?
No, he had not called.
"So rushed he hardly knows what he is doing;" the fond aunt concealed her disappointment, for her hopes had been renewed by the London visit, and she knew nothing of a certain affair which was being conducted independently of her leadership, (and we may add was brought to a successful issue in consequence). "George is simply done to death in the season. We saw next to nothing of him ourselves."
"You will soon hear something of him or I'm mistaken, however," mentally commented Leo—and the whole conversation which ensued left but one impression on her mind: How could she ever have chosen the long path whereby to conduct Mr. George Butts across the park?
As for poor Tommy Andrews, her feelings about Tommy had undergone a strange revulsion of late. Self-disgust had given way to such a sense of pity and sorrow as made her long to do something, anything, to heal his wound; and instead of wincing when she saw his figure in the distance, she cried out in her heart, "Oh, I am so sorry, so sorry,"—and could have wept for very tenderness of—fellow-feeling.
In the course of the evening Leo found Paul at her elbow; he had returned from seeing some departing guests to their carriage, and paused near the door where she was standing.
"It is a fine fresh night," he remarked, cheerfully.
"Has the moon come out?" said she. "It was raining a little while ago."
"The rain has stopped, and the moonlight is glorious. I saw you flitting about in the dusk this afternoon," continued Paul, smiling. "I was coming your way, but I turned off. I didn't feel sure that my company would be welcome. One likes to be alone sometimes."