“Clifford!” pouted his sister. “You are really trying. Madam my cousin hath said that I can bake and brew almost equal to Peggy, so you will have no need of simples after eating. Now does not that strawberry tart look tempting?”
“It does indeed, lass,” observed Mr. Owen. “Peggy will have to look to her laurels if you can get up such a meal as this. Come, come, Clifford! the proof of the pudding lies in the eating. Fall to, lad!”
“My death will be upon your head, Harriet,” observed her brother with such a sigh of resignation that Peggy could not help but laugh. “I do wish John Drayton were here.”
So with jest and laughter the family lingered over the meal, as if loath to make further exertion in the growing heat. In the midst of the cheer the knocker sounded, and, as though in answer to Clifford’s wish, the door swung back quietly, and John Drayton entered. Peggy sprang up at sight of him.
“Thee is just in time, John,” she cried gaily. “Clifford was just wishing for thee. I’ll lay a plate for thee.”
“Clifford?” Drayton’s tones were filled with astonishment.
There had been a sort of tacit truce established between the young fellows, but the feeling between them was such that for either to express desire for the other’s company was cause for wonderment.
“Strange, is’t not?” queried Clifford dryly. The insolence which he could not keep out of his voice whenever he addressed Drayton crept into it now. “You see, sir, my sister hath cooked this meal, and I was wishing for other victims than Cousin David and myself.”
“Knowing to whom Miss Harriet is indebted for her knowledge of cookery I have no fears regarding results,” remarked Drayton, with a slight bow in Mrs. Owen’s direction. “Miss Harriet, that strawberry tart looks enticing. I should be obliged for a liberal helping.”