“I am very sure there was nothing said that was not nice,” said Graeme. “I don’t quite remember about it. There was nothing worth remembering or repeating.”
“I daresay Harry told you I was a flirt. He told me so, myself, once,” said Rose, tossing her head in a way Graeme did not like to see.
“Hush, dear. He said nothing unkind, you may be sure.”
“And, now I remember, it was not Harry but Mr Millar who spoke about Mr Green,” said Fanny, “and about the ‘palatial residence,’ and how Rose, if she liked, might—”
Rose moved about impatiently.
“I must say I cannot admire the taste that would permit the discussion of anything of that sort with a stranger,” said she, angrily.
“My dear, you are speaking foolishly. There was no such discussion. And if you say anything more on the subject, I shall think that Harry was right when he said you were fond of admiration, and that your conscience is troubling you about something. Here comes nurse for baby. I suppose it is time for his bath, is it mamma?”
Fanny left the room with the child, and, after a few minutes’ silence, Rose said, with an effort,—
“Now, Graeme, please tell me what all this is about.”
“Dear, there is nothing to tell. I fancy Harry used to think that I was too anxious and eager about your coming home, and wanted to remind me that you were no longer a child, but a woman, who was admired, and who might, by and by, learn to care for some one else, more than for your sister and brothers. But he did not seriously say anything that you need care about. It would have been as well, perhaps, not to have said anything in Mr Millar’s presence, since we seem to have fallen a little out of acquaintance with him lately. But Harry has not, and he did not consider, and, indeed, there was nothing said that he might not very well hear.”