William turned, his face full of an emotion that Henry had never seen there: a streak of scarlet on his cheeks, his earnest eyes strangely troubled. And Mary?—her face seemed to have borrowed the same flush, as she stood there, her head and eyelashes bent.
Henry Ashley gazed, first at one, next at the other, and then turned and leaned from the window himself. In contrition for having spoken so openly of his sister's affairs? Not at all. Whistling the bars of a renowned comic song of the day called "The Steam Arm."
Mr. Ashley put in his head. "I am ready, William."
William touched Mary's hand in silence by way of adieu, and halted as he passed Henry. "Shall you come round to the men to-night?"
"No, I shan't," retorted Henry. "I am upset for the day."
He was halfway down the path when he heard himself called by Henry, still leaning from the window. He went back to him.
"She said she'd rather have a chimney-sweep than Cyril Dare. Don't go and make a muff of yourself again."
William turned away without any answer. Mr. Ashley, who had waited, put his arm within his, and they proceeded to the manufactory.
"Have you heard this rumour, respecting Herbert Dare, that has been wafted over from Germany within the last day or two?" inquired Mr. Ashley, as they walked along.
"Yes, sir," replied William.