“I was—near the Torr,” replied Selina, with hesitation.
“Near the Torr, child! That’s a long way for you to go strolling alone.”
“The wild roses in the hedges there are so lovely,” pleaded Selina. “That’s why I took to go there at first.”
“Took to go there!” repeated the old lady, thinking it an odd phrase. “Do you see anything of the Torr people? I hope you’ve not been making intimate with young Stephen Radcliffe,” she added, a thought darting into her mind.
“Stephen? that’s the son. No, I never saw him. I think he is away from home.”
“That’s well. He is by all accounts but a churlish lout of a fellow.”
Selina Elliot bent her timid face over the hat, smoothing its ribbons with her restless fingers. She was evidently ill at ease. Glancing up presently, she saw the old lady was shutting her eyes for a doze: and that hastened her communication.
“I—I want to tell you something, please, ma’am. But—I don’t like to begin.” And, with that, Selina burst into unexpected tears, and the alarmed old lady looked up.
“Why, what ails you, child? Are you hurt? Has a wasp been at you?”