“Miss Carlyle.”
“Oh, I might have guessed that. Is she as fierce as ever?”
“There is little alteration in her.”
“And there won’t be on this side the grave. I say, Joyce, I don’t want to encounter her; she might set on at me, like she has done many a time in the old days. Little love was there lost between me and Corny Carlyle. Is Mr. Carlyle at home?”
“He will be home to dinner. I dare say you would like some tea; you shall come and take it with me and Wilson, in the nursery.”
“I was thinking you might have the grace to offer me something,” cried Afy. “I intend to stop till to-morrow in the neighborhood. My lady gave me two days’ holiday—for she was going to see her dreadful old grandmother, where she can’t take a maid—and I thought I’d use it in coming to have a look at the old place again. Don’t stare at me in that blank way, as if you feared I should ask the grand loan of sleeping here. I shall sleep at the Mount Severn Arms.”
“I was not glancing at such a thought, Afy. Come and take your bonnet off.”
“Is the nursery full of children?”
“There is only one child in it. Miss Lucy and Master William are with the governess.”
Wilson received Afy with lofty condescension, having Richard Hare in her thoughts. But Joyce explained that it was all a misapprehension—that her sister had never been near Richard Hare, but was as indignant against him as they were. Upon which Wilson grew cordial and chatty, rejoicing in the delightful recreation her tongue would enjoy that evening.