“I’ve found some better books than that already,” he said. “Just look over here, Miss Morion.”
Frances could not but follow him, though not particularly desirous of doing so. Horace and Betty remained where they were.
“I wish he would leave us alone,” said Betty, half petulantly. “Frances was interested in the book, and then,” with some hesitation, “she doesn’t mind about our great-grand-aunt the way I do. Do you think,” she went on naïvely, “that it can have anything to do with my being named after her, or just—just that Frances is so sensible and good about everything, and that I’m silly?”
“Frances,” began Horace, then he checked himself, and his colour deepened a little. “I beg your pardon,” he said, with a slight laugh; but Betty’s face was far from expressing displeasure. “Your sister,” he began again, “deserves most assuredly what you say of her, but you can scarcely expect me to endorse what you say of yourself.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t mind in the least,” Betty rejoined. “I am silly—very silly in some ways, I know,” and she glanced up at him with a light in her shy eyes, which illumined all the little flower-like face, as if it were a ray of sunshine. “I thought it was because of that that you turned over the pages of this creepy book so quickly.” For by this time Betty had redeemed her promise of telling Mr Littlewood all that she herself knew of the reputed ghost.
He looked gratified. Everybody likes to be credited with tact.
“I knew it wasn’t exactly a subject you cared to speak about—to strangers,” he replied.
“Less still,” said Betty, “to Mr Ryder Morion, who, besides being a perfect stranger to us himself, has to do with it, of course.”
“He doesn’t seem to have taken your fancy,” said Horace tentatively.
Betty closed her lips in a way she had which expressed more than words.