“I’m glad to hear it,” said Frances. “One can never be without interest in the head of one’s family, it seems to me.”
They had been strolling on during the last few moments towards their own gate, and, there arrived, Frances held out her hand.
“Good-night, Mr Littlewood,” she said simply, adding no invitation to come in with them.
“Good-night,” he repeated, shaking hands with each in turn, “but—it need not be ‘Good-bye,’ as I don’t leave till the day after to-morrow. Do you think Lady Emma would allow me to look in some time in the afternoon?”
“Y-yes, I will tell her,” was Frances’ rather ambiguous reply; and as the young man re-entered the park, his thoughts busied themselves with the glimpse, the almost pathetic glimpse, he had had into these young lives.
Chapter Six.
“Not at Home.”
“What in the world,” said Betty, “what in the whole world, Frances, did you get to talk about to him, all that long way across the park?”