“Join him, embark in any of his numerous speculations. Wait a moment; I have got a letter concerning our friend in my pocket. Let me turn the key in your door first, to keep out some of those irrepressible people whom I hear coming in search of you. I am not going to show you that letter, but I will read you a few paragraphs out of it. There, I told you—knock away—who’s there?—what do you want?”
“May I come in?” asked Mrs. Ormson, vainly trying to open the door. “Is Heather to be seen?”
“No,” almost screamed Miss Hope; “she is lying down with a very bad headache, and must not be disturbed.”
“May I not speak to her for a moment?”
“Certainly not; I will come downstairs presently and hear all you have got to say.”
“That you won’t,” thought Mrs. Ormson.
“Now, do go away, please Mrs. Ormson, and tell your daughter not to come worrying. There, that’s a good riddance; how frightened you look, child!”
“She will be so angry—so offended.”
“Let her be offended. Is the house not your own? Have you no right to ten minutes’ quiet in the day? Are you to be at the beck and call of a parcel of people who would like you to slave for their amusement? I’m out of patience with it. And, besides, your head is aching. Don’t contradict me; I know better.”
“I had no intention of contradicting you,” Heather answered. “Now about the letter, Miss Hope—that is, if you think it quite right for me to hear it.”