Coralie was in her favourite little parlour, reading by lamplight. The Squire sat down by the fire in a flutter, and began remonstrating about the Christmas dinner. Coralie only laughed.
“It is unreasonable, dear Mr. Todhetley, even to propose our going to you. Think of the number! I wish to have everybody. The Archdeacon and his wife, and Dr. Rymer, and Mrs. Cramp, and the Letsoms, and Tom Chandler and Emma, and of course, her father, old Mr. Paul, as he is some relation of mine, and—— Why, that’s a carriage driving up! I wonder who has come to-night?”
Another minute, and old Ozias rushed in with a beaming face, hardly able to get his words out for excitement.
“Oh, Missee, Missee, it Massa George; come all over wide seas from home,”—and there entered a fine man with a frank and handsome face—George Bazalgette.
“Where’s Verena?” he exclaimed, after kissing Coralie and shaking hands genially with the Squire, though they had never met before.
Coralie looked surprised. “Verena?” she repeated. “Is she not with you?”
“She is not with me; I wish she was. Where is she, Coralie?”
“But how should I know where she is?” retorted Coralie, looking up at Mr. Bazalgette.
“Is she not staying with you? Did she not come over to you?”