“And now to see you back, Barbara,” said Mr. Carlyle.
“Indeed you shall not do it—late as it is, and tired as you must be. I came here alone; Richard did not keep near me.”
“I cannot help your having come here alone, but you may rely upon it, I do not suffer you to go back so. Nonsense, Barbara! Allow you to go along the high road by yourself at eleven o’clock at night? What are you thinking of?”
He gave Barbara his arm, and they pursued their way. “How late Lady Isabel will think you!” observed Barbara.
“I don’t know that Lady Isabel has returned home yet. My being late once in a while is of no consequence.”
Not another word was spoken, save by Barbara. “Whatever excuse can I make, should papa come home?” Both were buried in their own reflections. “Thank you very greatly,” she said as they reached her gate, and Mr. Carlyle finally turned away. Barbara stole in, and found the coast clear; her papa had not arrived.
Lady Isabel was in her dressing-room when Mr. Carlyle entered; she was seated at a table, writing. A few questions as to her evening’s visit, which she answered in the briefest way possible, and then he asked her if she was not going to bed.
“By and by. I am not sleepy.”
“I must go at once, Isabel, for I am dead tired.” And no wonder.
“You can go,” was her answer.