“But Mrs. Coney says you are to; and some mince-pie also, or you’ll have no luck.”
As if in obedience she ate a little of the pudding, cut a quarter of the mince-pie with her fork, and ate that.
“There, Johnny, that’s quite enough for ‘luck.’ Go back now to your dinner; I dare say you’ve not had any pudding yourself.”
“I’ll stay with you, and finish this: as it is going begging.”
She neither said yes nor no. She was looking frightfully uneasy.
“Are you vexed that Robert Ashton’s not here, Jane?”
“I am not vexed, because I know he would have been here if he could. I think something has happened to him.”
I stared at her. “What! because he is a little late in coming? Why, Jane, you must be nervous.”
She kept looking into the fire, her eyes fixed. I sat on a stool on the other side of the hearth; the empty pudding-plate standing on the rug between us, where I had put it.
“Robert was sure to come for this dinner, Johnny, all being well, and to be in time.”