“And I mustn’t stay,” said Horace—“not for more than a few minutes, at most. There are letters I must write for the night mail. I’m afraid I have tired you, Mr Morion,” and indeed the poor man did look, for once, in danger of a thorough collapse.
Lady Emma glanced at him again with increasing anxiety, while Horace, looking and feeling very guilty, still stood irresolutely, making no attempt to sit down.
Frances came to the rescue, as usual. Doing so, indeed, seemed to be her mission in life. She turned to Horace with a smile.
“Supposing we go out into the garden for a minute or two,” she said, “or at least we can go as far as the gate with you, Mr Littlewood, and leave papa to rest. We want to hear about Madeleine, too.”
Lady Emma looked relieved.
“Frances really has a good deal of tact,” she thought, “but it is very stupid of Mr Littlewood to have tired George so, by staying so long.”
Once outside the house Horace turned eagerly to Frances.
“I hadn’t the least idea,” he began, “that your father was really so nervous. I’m afraid I must have been far too abrupt.”
He glanced round for Betty as he spoke. She had moved towards him, her face full of anxiety.
“But it is all right, surely?” she whispered. “Papa wasn’t angry, was he?”