“Thank you, but I am afraid I could not spare the time. It is very kind of you to ask me.”
“Oh, not a bit! It would have amused me and been a day off for mamma. Still writing songs and giving story-telling entertainments, are you? Oh, I heard all about it. I was bothered to death to find engagements for you.” Truda lay back in her chair and looked curiously into the fair, troubled face. “Seen anything of Ralph Merrilies lately?”
Hope’s embarrassment was swallowed up in surprise at so casual a reference to a future husband. “No,” she said emphatically—“not for nearly six months. I never meet him except at my aunt’s house, and I go there very seldom. He does not call on us in our flat.”
“I wonder why not. He was awfully smitten with you; and wasn’t. I furious about it? He had been quite attentive to me before you came, and then he had eyes for no one else. I believe I was quite jealous of you, dear.”
“You had no reason to be. You feel that now, don’t you?” said Hope gently, and Truda gave a complacent little laugh.
“Oh, I don’t mind now. He may care as much as he likes. Reggie is a good little soul; I’m quite satisfied with him.”
“Reggie!”
“Reggie, of course—Charles Reginald Blake. Who else should it be? Hope Charrington, you don’t mean to tell me that you imagined—”
“Of course I did! It’s your own fault. You told me—don’t you remember?—you told me yourself that you liked him, and warned me—”
For once Truda had the grace to blush and look discomfited.