"Yes, and come with me to tell Wythie and Basil; it isn't fair to leave them to learn about it with the others—nor Cousin Peace. What a pity Prue is away!" said Rob, jumping up to go with Bruce. "I'll just look in a moment upon Cousin Peace on my way home from Wythie's, Mardy. And oughtn't I order a stirrup cup for our friends?"
"A stirrup cup, Rob?" repeated her mother.
"Yes, why not, if I am going to ride away from Green Pastures to Gretna Green? Only we may not quite elope," said Rob. "I mean nothing more startling than some refreshments, Mardy."
"Oh dear, oh dear," sighed Mrs. Grey in pretended distress. "The moment a girl is engaged her memory for details fails. Is it possible, Roberta, that you have forgotten that you and I made cake all yesterday afternoon, ordered cream, and prepared for the celebration of Basil's novel?"
Rob laughed, and hastily ran away; she really had completely forgotten, and it was embarrassing. She went from Wythie's raptures and Basil's profound delight, to Cousin Peace's not less genuine though quieter pleasure, and to little singing Polly's unexplained tears—"Singing Polly," they called the child often now, for her voice was becoming daily a more wonderful possession.
The evenings were already growing long, and early that night the curtains were drawn close around the little grey house, and the lamps lighted.
Wythie and Basil came down early, to find Bruce already there. The two brothers, very like in features and colouring, though differing in expression, and almost the same height, stood beside the fire, looking happy and handsome in their white linen—they were the sort of men to whom evening-dress is vastly becoming.
Each thought regretfully of Bartlemy far away, who had missed his prize out of the treasures the little grey house had to give. But it was good that the Commodore had arrived that day, and good to see the beaming satisfaction with which he regarded his two splendid sons, for whom no father could wish a better fate than to have won the two elder Grey daughters.