“That’s why I like our doing it!” he chuckled.
And then with that queer touch of malicious triumph that fascinated her, he added: “What would sister Agatha say if walls could speak?”
“Don’t you go saying that! Miss Cheale’s never in the drawing room,” she exclaimed, affrighted at the very thought. “No one ever is—now that the mistress keeps upstairs.”
“No one but you and me, Psyche!” and then he took her face between his hands and lightly kissed it. “I won’t stay long to-night, I promise—but we can’t meet to-morrow, worse luck! Your uncle’s spending the night at the farm.”
“Can’t see what you fancy about Uncle Enoch——”
“I like lawyers—they’re such rascals! Why he was telling your mother all about Mrs. Garlett’s will last Sunday——”
“He never was?”
Lucy felt very much shocked. Even she knew that in doing such a thing her uncle, Enoch Bent, confidential clerk to Mr. Toogood, the leading lawyer of Grendon, was acting in a very dishonourable manner.
“Run along now,” exclaimed Guy Cheale, a touch of rasped impatience in his voice.
And then he seized her again in his arms—only to push her away. “I’ll wait till we can kiss at ease—in the drawing room! Strange that hideous, early Victorian temple of respectability should shelter the love of two wild hawks like you and me—eh, Lucy?”