“No, indeed,” said Bunting quickly. “I give you my word, I’ve hardly thought of anything else for the last month.”
Daisy had disappeared, and when her father joined her in the passage she was listening, with downcast eyes, to what Joe Chandler was saying.
He was telling her about his real home, of the place where his mother lived, at Richmond—that it was a nice little house, close to the park. He was asking her whether she could manage to come out there one afternoon, explaining that his mother would give them tea, and how nice it would be.
“I don’t see why Ellen shouldn’t let me,” the girl said rebelliously. “But she’s that old-fashioned and pernickety is Ellen—a regular old maid! And, you see, Mr. Chandler, when I’m staying with them, father don’t like for me to do anything that Ellen don’t approve of. But she’s got quite fond of you, so perhaps if you ask her—?” She looked at him, and he nodded sagely.
“Don’t you be afraid,” he said confidently. “I’ll get round Mrs. Bunting. But, Miss Daisy”—he grew very red—“I’d just like to ask you a question—no offence meant—”
“Yes?” said Daisy a little breathlessly. “There’s father close to us, Mr. Chandler. Tell me quick; what is it?”
“Well, I take it, by what you said just now, that you’ve never walked out with any young fellow?”
Daisy hesitated a moment; then a very pretty dimple came into her cheek. “No,” she said sadly. “No, Mr. Chandler, that I have not.” In a burst of candour she added, “You see, I never had the chance!”
And Joe Chandler smiled, well pleased.