“You goose!” cried his mother. “The fact is, Lucy, Ray thought you would like to see all the old-fashioned corners. They are not like the gardens at the Hall. Oh, we don’t pretend to anything so fine; but we have heaps of flowers, and I think that is the chief thing. Ray is devoted to the garden—he wants so much to show you round.”
And a few minutes after Lucy found herself walking by Ray, who was very shy, and had not a notion what to say to her, nor had she what to say to him. He took her along a commonplace path, and showed her the flower-beds—that is to say, he intimated, with a wave of his hand and a blush, that here were the roses, and there—“I’m sure I don’t know what you call these things,” Ray said.
“Are you not very fond of flowers, then? I thought Mrs. Rushton—”
“Oh, yes, I’m very fond of them—some, you know; but I never can remember the names; it is like songs— I’m very fond of music, but I never can remember the words.”
This was a long speech, and he felt better after it. However little inclined you may feel to do your duty, there is a sense of satisfaction in having done it. “Do you sing?” he added, emboldened by his own success.
“No,” Lucy said; and then the poor young fellow was balked, and the path which seemed to be opening before him was cut suddenly short. He gave a sigh of disappointment, and plunged his hands deeper than ever into his pockets to seek inspiration there.
“Mamma thinks we should go out to-morrow,” he said.
“Yes?” This monosyllable was interrogative, and gave him encouragement. He cleared his throat again.
“I could show you some very nice rides—the way to the picnic on Thursday is very pretty. Were you ever at the old abbey at Burnside? Quantities of people go—”
“I have passed it,” said Lucy, “when we rode at school.”