“Her eagerness is natural, Richard,” smiled Mrs. Hare. “Barbara thinks she shall get a peep at the baby, I expect. All young folks are fond of babies.”
Barbara’s face flushed crimson, but she did not contradict the opinion. She could not eat her dinner—she was too full of poor Richard; she played with it, and then sent away her plate nearly untouched.
“That’s through the finery she’s been buying,” pronounced Justice Hare. “Her head is stuffed up with it.”
No opposition was offered to Barbara’s going to East Lynne. She reached it just as their dinner was over. It was for Miss Carlyle she asked.
“Miss Carlyle is not at home, miss. She is spending the day out; and my lady does not receive visitors yet.”
It was a sort of checkmate. Barbara was compelled to say she would see Mr. Carlyle. Peter ushered her into the drawing-room, and Mr. Carlyle came to her.
“I am so very sorry to disturb you—to have asked for you,” began Barbara, with a burning face, for, somehow, a certain evening interview of hers with him, twelve months before, was disagreeably present to her. Never, since that evening of agitation, had Barbara suffered herself to betray emotion to Mr. Carlyle; her manner to him had been calm, courteous, and indifferent. And she now more frequently called him “Mr. Carlyle” than “Archibald.”
“Take a seat—take a seat, Barbara.”
“I asked for Miss Carlyle,” she continued, “for mamma is in want of a pattern that she promised to lend her. You remember the Lieutenant Thorn whom Richard spoke of as being the real criminal?”
“Yes.”