“Yes’m.”
“A young widow is a beautiful sight,” observed Mrs. Wadsworth pathetically.
“Probably some one will think so,” said Mr. Hammerton, speaking quickly to save Tessa from replying.
“Take off your things, Tessa,” said Dinah. “I want my supper.”
“It’s his night, isn’t it?” asked Mr. Hammerton, teasingly; Dinah colored, looked confused, and ran down-stairs to ring the tea-bell.
The door-bell clanged sharply through the house as they were rising from the table. “I was young myself once,” remarked Mr. Hammerton.
“I don’t believe it,” retorted Dinah, putting her hands instinctively up to her hair.
“You’ll do, run along,” laughed her father. “Oh, how old I feel to see my little girls becoming women.”
“I should think Tessa would feel old,” replied Mrs. Wadsworth, significantly.
“I do,” said Tessa, rising. “Where is your criticism, Mr. Critic; I have some packing to do to-night, so you may cut me to pieces before chess.”