"But a house in Eaton Place, and it is one of the larger houses too," demurred Sue, "would it not be rather expensive——?"
"Not in the least, seeing that we are to have Aunt Charlotte's servants. It is really most kind," averred Maud, with the warmest approval; "I should not think of refusing, not for a moment. And St. Peter's close by—" with a meaning smile to Paul—"what could be better?"
"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said he, looking under the table.
"You will close with the offer at once, Sue?" proceeded Maud, too much elated and gratified to observe the lack of response; "don't lose a post, in case the good lady changes her mind. How soon can we go, do you think?"
But even the gentle Sue kindled a little beneath a note which jarred on all, and she looked a mute reproach.
"Well? How soon?" impatiently reiterated her sister.
How soon? To leave for evermore the old familiar scenes, the peaceful glades—every spot hallowed by memories and associations? To take a last farewell of the only life she had ever known, to fling it aside like a worn-out garment? Was it possible that any one, even with a bright new existence opening before her, could be so eager to turn the page that all she could say or think of was "How soon?"
It wounded Sue to her heart's core to hear the peremptory tone and meet the unabashed gaze. She could not speak,—and the next minute she felt an arm steal round her waist, and a cheek was laid on hers. It was only Leo, but Sue never said "only Leo" from that moment. She took the little hand and fondled it; she used it to wipe her own tears away.
"Hi, Lion, Lion?" said Paul, looking under the table again.