“Oh! yes; ’tis he,” assented the sister, her eyes still upon him. “I’m sure now, myself. The horse—yes, the dress too. And, see! a red plume in his hat—that’s enough. I wonder where he’s bound for—surely not Hollymead!”
It was then the grave look already alluded to showed itself in her eyes. “Perhaps you can tell, sister?” she added, interrogatively.
“Sabrina! why do you say that? How should I be acquainted with Mr Trevor’s movements or intentions—any more than yourself?”
“Ha—ha! What an artful little minx you are, Vag! A very mistress of deception!”
“You’ll make me angry, Sab—I’m half that already.”
“Without cause, then, or reason.”
“Every reason.”
“Name one.”
“That you should suspect me of having a secret and keeping it from you.”
“Goodness gracious! How just you are in your reproaches—you, who but this very moment have been accusing me of that selfsame thing! I, all candour, all frankness!”