"Yes," said Sarah. "That's what we'll tell the other people. But you and I—why, Dr. Blunderbuss," she said reproachfully, using the name she had given him in her saucy childhood, "you know how I've worshipped Lady Mary ever since I was a little girl?"
"Yes, yes, my dear, I know," said the doctor.
"You love her too, don't you?" said Sarah.
He started. "I—I love Lady Mary! What do you mean?" he said, almost violently.
"Oh, I didn't mean that sort of love," said Sarah, watching him keenly. Then she laid her plump hand gently on his shabby sleeve. "I wouldn't have said it, if I'd thought—"
"Thought what?" said the doctor, agitated.
"What I think now," said Sarah.
He walked up and down in a silence she was too wise to break. When he looked at her again, Sarah was leaning against the piano. She had taken off the picture-hat, and was swinging it absently to and fro by the black ribbons which had but now been tied beneath her round, white chin. She presented a charming picture—and it is possible she knew it—as she stood in that restful pose, with her long lashes pointed downwards towards her buckled shoes.
The doctor stopped in front of her. "You are too quick for me, Sarah. You always were, even as a little girl," he said. "You've surprised my—my poor secret. You can laugh at the old doctor now, if you like."
"I don't feel like laughing," said Sarah, simply. "And your secret is safe with me. I'm honest; you know that."