"If you're good. But you'll have to be dreadfully good!"
"I am good," said Lily, confidently. "I want to be in your school, please Sir."
"But such a lot of other little girls want to come too! Must I leave them out?"
Lily shook her head perplexed. "But you promithed," she lisped, very softly.
Winnington laughed. The child's hand had transferred itself to his, and nestled there.
"What school does she mean?" asked Delia.
At the sound of her voice Winnington turned to her for the first time. It was as though till then he had avoided looking at her, lest the hidden thought in each mind should be too plain to the other. He had found her—Sir Robert Blanchflower's daughter—on the point of being curtly refused admission to the house where her father had been a familiar inmate, and where she herself had gone in and out as a child. And he knew why; she knew why; Daunt knew why. She was a person under suspicion, a person on whom the community was keeping watch.
Nevertheless, Winnington entirely believed what he had overheard her say to the keeper. It was no doubt quite true that she had turned aside to see Monk Lawrence on a sudden impulse of sentiment or memory. Odd that it should be so!—but like her. That she could have any designs on the beautiful old place was indeed incredible; and it was equally incredible that she would aid or abet them in anyone else. And yet—there was that monstrous speech at Latchford, made in her hearing, by her friend and co-militant, the woman who shared her life! Was it any wonder that Daunt bristled at the sight of her?
He had, however, to answer her question.
"My county school," he explained. "The school for invalid children—'physical defectives'—that we are going to open next summer. I came to tell Daunt there'd be a place for this child. She's an old friend of mine." He smiled down upon the nestling creature—"Has Miss Amberley been to see you lately, Lily?"