“Madeleine—Miss Littlewood,” she began, “sees things too partially. In the first place, as you must know, there are scarcely any poor on your property; such as there are, Mr Ferraby can tell you all about far more satisfactorily than I can. And as to other things—other places in the neighbourhood—well, no, I suppose they are not more your affair than that of several other people, to whom I could not apply without seeming officious, and gaining nothing in the end.”
But through her rather curt manner he detected a slight hesitation. And in point of fact, at that moment she was asking herself if she should suppress all other feeling in the hope of gaining his interest and assistance where both were so badly needed.
“Are you thinking of Scaling Harbour?” he inquired abruptly.
Frances’ brow cleared, while her doubts vanished. Yes, this was her opportunity; there was now no mistake about it.
“Yes,” she replied, and for the first time she raised her eyes and looked at him fully and unconstrainedly, “I was.”
“Thank you,” he said quickly. “I shall not forget. Now, Horace,” he went on, turning to young Littlewood, who had got down a big book containing some very quaint illustrations which he was exhibiting to Betty on a side-table. “Do the honours, can’t you? Oh, I beg your pardon, I see you are doing them already.”
Horace looked up, but kept his place.
“What do you want me to do?” he inquired; then, without waiting for an answer, he turned to his folio again.
“Francie,” came in Betty’s clear treble, “do look here. Did you ever see such queer old figures?”
Frances crossed over to her sister’s side, not sorry on the whole that her tête-à-tête was over.