“Mr St. Cyr! a thousand pardons.” They had been speaking English all the way down the street, but they spoke French to him, and both the girls dropped their very best curtseys.
“It must be that my little cousins have come to get their wills made, or their marriage contracts drawn, in all this haste.”
Mr St. Cyr was the gentleman to whom their grandfather had committed the arrangement of his affairs; it was he who still managed the property; and through his hands their mother’s income came still.
“I was going to church this morning, but I shall be happy to defer it for you. You need not have been in such haste, however.”
The girls laughed, and apologised again.
“We were running away from Prickly Polly,” said Theresa.
“From Madame Marie Pauline Precoe Ascot,” explained Frederica.
“Is she coming after you? You had much better come in here,” said Mr St. Cyr, pretending great fright.
“Oh, no! But she is sure to go to church today, and we thought we might meet her. And if she knew we were going home, it might shorten her devotions.”
“If she knew we had a holiday, she would want to come home to vex us. We are not among her favourites—especially Fred.”