“Has he come?” whispered Betty.
Frances shook her head.
“No,” she replied, in the same voice, “but papa would have tea extra early. Help me to keep the table tidy.”
Mr Morion, by this time, had taken possession of an arm-chair by the drawing-room fire, which he pulled forward out of its place, as he was feeling chilly. As Frances was handing him his cup of tea the front door bell rang. A thrill of expectancy passed through Betty and Eira.
“Who can that be?” said their father, in a tone of annoyance.
“It is probably Mr Littlewood,” said Lady Emma quietly, “calling to say good-bye. I was expecting him.”
“Very strange, then, that you didn’t mention it to me,” replied her husband acridly. “Am I in a fit state of health to be troubled with visitors to-day? Not that it signifies: he need not be admitted.”
“Papa,” said Frances, in a tone of remonstrance, “it will seem very rude—he asked if he might call—we met him yesterday, and—”
But the parlour-maid’s approaching footsteps were already to be heard in the hall, and, without taking the slightest notice of his daughters words, Mr Morion rose from his seat, and, opening the door, gave his orders in a decided voice.
“Parker,” he said, “if that is a visitor, say at once that her ladyship is not at home, and that I am not at home either.”