“What a nuisance. But, anyhow, Jessie isn’t engaged, is she?”
For an instant he had a glimpse of Mrs. Sartin’s 178 full face, dubious, questioning, even hostile, but to him it was merely the result of flickering light and conveyed nothing.
“I don’t rightly know,” she said slowly, “maybe she doesn’t care much for gadding about.”
“Rubbish,” he retorted contemptuously, “if you can’t come, Jessie must anyway.”
Mrs. Sartin held firmly to the carriage door and the oscillation of the cab caused her to nod violently, but it was not in assent to Christopher’s proposition. She appeared to be turning something over in her slow mind.
“I don’t know but what I could arrange with Eliza,” she remarked.
“Of course you can, like a good woman; and you and Jessie come up to Aston House at one o’clock and say where you’d like to go, and we’ll go.”
Martha demurred. “Mr. Aston won’t like it.”
“Won’t like what?”
“Our comin’ to ’is ’ouse, like as if we ’ad any claim on you.”