“And I must be left alone in the house; to the ghosts and dreams and shadows they are inventing about that Dark Plain. I will go with you, Verrall.”
“I should not take you with me to save the ghosts running off with you,” was Mr. Verrall’s answer, as he pressed the ashes from his cigar on a pretty shell, set in gold. “I go up incog. this time.”
“Then I’ll fill the house with guests,” she petulantly said.
“Fill it, and welcome, if you like, Kate,” he replied. “But, to go to London, you must wait for another opportunity.”
“What a hateful thing business is! I wish it had never been invented!”
“A great many more wish the same. And have more cause to wish it than you,” he drily answered. “Is tea ready?”
Mrs. Verrall returned to the room she had left, to order it in. Charlotte Pain was then standing outside the large window, leaning against its frame, the King Charles lying quietly in her arms, and her own ears on the alert, for she thought she heard advancing footsteps; and they seemed to be stealthy ones. The thought—or, perhaps, the wish—that it might be George Godolphin, stealing up to surprise her, flashed into her mind. She bent her head, and stroked the dog, in the prettiest unconsciousness of the approaching footsteps.
A hand was laid upon her shoulder. “Charlotte!”
She cried out—a sharp, genuine cry of dismay—dropped the King Charles, and bounded into the room. The intruder followed her.
“Why, Dolf!” uttered Mrs. Verrall in much astonishment. “Is it you?”