“Indeed,” and Agnes bridled haughtily; “I did not know that Guy was in the habit of sending bouquets to such as this Clyde girl. I really must report him to Miss Atherstone.”
Guy’s seat was very near to Agnes, and, while a cloud overspread his fine features, he said to her in an aside:
“Please say in your report that the worst thing about this Clyde girl is that she aspires to be a teacher, and possibly a governess.”
There was an emphasis on the last word which silenced Agnes and set her to beating her French boot on the carpet; while Guy, turning back to the doctor, replied to his remark:
“She was pleased, then?”
“Yes; she must be vastly fond of flowers, though I sometimes fancied that the fact of being noticed by you afforded almost as much satisfaction as the bouquet itself. She evidently regards you as a superior being, and Aikenside a second Paradise, and asked innumerable questions about you and Jessie, too.”
“Did she honor me with an inquiry?” Agnes asked, her tone indicative of sarcasm, though she was greatly interested as well as relieved by the reply.
“Yes; she said she had heard that Jessie’s mother was a beautiful woman, and asked if you were not born in England.”
“She’s mixed me up with Lucy. Guy, you must go down and enlighten her,” Agnes said, laughing merrily and appearing more at ease than she had before since Maddy Clyde had been the subject of conversation.
Guy did not go down to Honedale—but fruit and flowers, and a bottle of rare old wine, found their way to the old red cottage, always brought by Guy’s man, Duncan, and always accompanied with Mr. Remington’s compliments. Once, hidden among the rosebuds, was a childish note from Jessie, some of it printed and some in the uneven hand of a child just commencing to write.