“What do you generally do on Saturday afternoons?” I said. “Do you go off to cricket matches or football matches, or—oh! I know what you’re going to say, that I shouldn’t jumble up seasons in that sort of way. And I do know better, but I am asking for general information. I don’t suppose you all stay at home doing nothing!”
“Well, to-day, as I happen to know,” he replied importantly, “they have designs upon you in the shape of a Spring Flower Show at the Botanical Gardens. I don’t suppose you’ll care about it, but mother is one of those people who would be miserable if she did not arrange amusement for her guests; so, my dear Miss Fitzmaurice, you will have to make the best of it.”
“I shall like it very much,” I replied. “Which of you will be going? You, I suppose?”
He hesitated.
“Well, no,” he said, “I’m afraid not. I really am rather busy just now, and—that sort of thing is a change for Clarence after his office work. So, as you won’t see much of me for the rest of the day, is it presumptuous of me to hope that will let me go over some of my work with for half-an-hour or so this morning? The library at the back of the house is really a pleasant room for a quiet talk—or, if you keep to your kind proposal of letting me read aloud to you, I should be most grateful.”
Chapter Twelve.
A Flower Show.
Rupert’s proposal was just what I was hoping for. I responded most cordially, feeling half ashamed of my real motive for so doing when I saw the unmistakable gratification in his eyes. So I resolved to do my best—but a small “best” at most—to help him, especially when, on following him to the library, I saw the little preparations he had already made there for my comfort, which he was half anxious, half shy about.