“You were determined to have a new one, weren’t you?”
“I thought it would be unlucky if I didn’t, though there wasn’t anybody but you to see it. It isn’t that I care for money, Alfred,” she went on—“don’t think it. It’s only mother that makes the fuss. We’ll pay her up quick when we’ve got it, and we’ll be awfully good to grandmother; but, as for me, I wouldn’t care if you hadn’t a penny. It’s only you I want.”
“And it’s only you I want,” he said, with a little cough that belied his words.
“What is that rustling, Alfred—is there any one about?”
“It’s only the rain among the grass and leaves; I wish it’d leave off—I ought to be getting in.”
“What time is she coming from London?”
“I expect she’ll be here soon now. You had better give me that money, Caroline.”
“It’s hidden in my dress—wait till I get it out. I hope mother won’t hear I was paid, or she’ll wonder what I’ve done with it.”
“I can’t do without a little money,” he said, in the tone Aunt Anne had often heard; “and the old woman is so close-fisted she expects me to account for everything she gives me.”
“Well, there it is—twenty-two shillings and sixpence. I don’t want grandmother to know, for she said last time she wondered you liked taking it.”