“Hush, Lilias, some of them will hear you,” said her mother. “They don’t mean to be rude, poor people. You must remember how unaccustomed they are to strangers.”
“Mamma,” interrupted George, the second Western boy, hurrying up—“mamma, who can those people be? They’ve come out of church, and they’re standing staring about as if they didn’t know what to do. Where can they be going to? Their carriage hasn’t come back.”
Lilias’s fair face flushed—a very small amount of excitement was enough to deepen the soft pink colour of her cheeks at any time.
“We should do something, mamma,” she said, appealingly. “Shouldn’t Basil or George run back and ask them if they would like to wait at the Rectory till their carriage comes? You, Basil, run back, do, and ask them if they wouldn’t like to come in and rest a little.” (Basil was much the best-looking of “the boys.”)
“Rest—rubbish!” he said, contemptuously. “Haven’t they been resting in church all this time? I’m not going with such a nonsensical message,” and he turned away.
“George, you go, as Basil seems afraid of behaving like a gentleman,” said Mrs Western.
But George, too, hesitated.
“I wouldn’t mind if it wasn’t for those ladies. Mother, they are so awfully grand,” he said, beseechingly.
Lilias’s face grew scarlet.
“I will go myself, then,” she exclaimed, and turning quickly, she had gone some way across the grass before the others quite understood her intention. Mrs Western looked distressed.