“I trust and believe not,” he replied. “But then I have only Hebe’s own account, you see. I shall know more after I have seen Norman and the Marths.—About writing to her,” he continued, turning to Blanche, “I don’t quite know. I don’t fancy she’s allowed to read at all, and you might not care for your letter going through other hands.”
Blanche looked disappointed.
“Then will you tell her from me?” she began, but he interrupted her.
“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you won’t think me officious—if you like to write to her and will give me the letter, I’ll take it myself, and she can have it read to her by some one you would not mind—Rosy—Rosy Milward, perhaps.”
“Thank you,” said Blanche. “I would like to write a little, however little, if I were sure she would get it herself. I can write it at once,” she went on, “if you don’t mind waiting a few minutes;” and she left the room as she spoke. She had hardly done so, when Stasy made her appearance.
“Blanche,” she said, as she came in, “Miss Halliday does so want you—How do you do, Mr Dunstan? I did not know you were here.—Where is Blanchie, mamma?”
“She is writing a note,” Mrs Derwent replied—“something rather particular. Can I not do instead of her?”
“Oh, well, perhaps you can; it’s about a letter she is wanted,” said Stasy. “If you could come, Miss Halliday will explain about it.” And with a word of apology to Mr Dunstan, Mrs Derwent left the room with her younger daughter.
“What a life of slavery for women in their position!” said Archie to himself. “To be at the beck and call of all the Blissmore shopkeepers. It is insufferable!”
He strolled restlessly to the window and stood looking out, feeling very indignant with the world in general and, most unreasonably, with Miss Halliday in particular.