“I don’t know, indeed. When does he come?”
“Charlie, man,” said Harry, rising suddenly, “did I not hear you promising Crofts to meet him to-night? It is eight o’clock.”
“No. I don’t care if I never see Crofts, or any of his set again. You had much better stay where you are Harry.”
“Charlie, don’t be misanthropical. I promised if you didn’t. Come along. No? Well, good-night to you all. Will, it is time you were in bed, your eyes are like saucers. Don’t sit up for me, Graeme.”
Graeme had no heart to remonstrate. She felt it would do no good, and he went away leaving a very silent party behind him. Charlie lingered. When Graeme came down-stairs after seeing Will in his room she found him still sitting opposite Rose, silent and grave. He roused himself as she entered. Graeme would gladly have excused him, but she took a seat and her work, and prepared to be entertained. It was not an easy matter, though Charlie had the best will in the world to be entertaining, and Graeme tried to respond. She did not think of it at the time, but afterwards, when Charlie was gone, she remembered the sad wistful look with which the lad had regarded her. Rose too, hung about her, saying nothing, but with eyes full of something to which Graeme would not respond. One angry throb, stirred her heart, but her next thoughts were not in anger.
“These foolish young people have been dreaming dreams about Allan and me,—and I must undeceive them—or deceive them—”
“Graeme,” said Rose, softly, “if either of us wait for Harry it must be me, for you are very tired.”
“Yes, I am very tired.”
“Charlie said, perhaps he would take Harry home with him. Should we wait?” said Rose.
“No. He may not come. We will not wait. I shall sleep near Will. He cannot spare me yet. Now go, love.”