“Yes,” she said, examining the pictures with interest. “They must be about the date of—let me see—Queen Anne! or older than that?”
“It is easily seen,” said Horace, turning back to the title-page. There was no fly-leaf, but at the top was written in clear, still black handwriting:
“Elizabeth Morion: the gift of her father on the 16th anniversary of her birth.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Betty. “It was her book,” and she drew back with a little shiver.
“Don’t be silly, Betty dear,” said Frances. “It makes it all the more interesting.”
But Horace’s face expressed some concern, and he murmured something, of which the word “unlucky” was the only one audible to his companions.
“What have you got hold of over there, Horace, that is absorbing you so?” said a voice close at hand, and, glancing up, Frances saw Mr Morion standing beside her.
“Only one of these queer old books,” Horace replied carelessly, though as he spoke he turned over the pages so that the first one, with the inscription, was no longer visible. For which piece of tact both sisters felt grateful to him.
“It would have been disagreeable to have come upon the subject of the split in the family this very first time of our meeting,” thought Frances, while Betty, too, was relieved, though on different grounds.
Ryder Morion glanced at the book indifferently. Then his eyes strayed back to the other side of the room.