“Well, I hope you’ll be kind too,” said his father. Leslie said nothing; he had not been told that Lestranges are always kind--besides, he was examining the carpet. It was nice and thick, and he thought there were birds on it, but they were not going slowly enough to make sure. A door opened, and in a bower of late spring flowers stood a woman--a tall, dark woman with lips that laughed and eyes that swam in tears, and outstretched hands and a low, sweet voice like music--saying his name very quickly and paying no attention to his father at all.
Leslie stopped perfectly still and looked at her. There was no doubt about it, she was worse than a witch--she was an enchantress! He knew no spell to change her back into a snake or a pig. He could only stand and look at her with grave and disapproving eyes, and then hold out his little slender hand with the stately politeness of a well-mannered child--the severest rebuke in Nature.
“How do you do?” he said gravely; then he looked round for his father. His father was gone. For a moment he had a wild thought of darting after him, of screaming for help and flying down those soft, broad covered passages. Horror shook his quivering nerves, but pride restrained him. His father had deserted him. Perhaps she had the power to make his father invisible. At any rate, she should not make a Lestrange a coward, so he sat down politely and looked at her.
“I hope you will like these little cakes I have got for your tea,” said Edith, and her hand shook a little. “They are all in the shape of fishes. I have a very nice cook, and she made them for me, and we put eyes in--and everything.”
“It was very kind of you,” said Leslie, “but I would rather not eat them.”
“But you will have some tea, won’t you?” she pleaded; “and all these buns have got hundreds and thousands on them, and they are buttered.”
There was no doubt about it, she knew how to put things, this enchantress; the hundreds and thousands were a distinct point.
“Thank you, I had my tea before I came,” said Leslie. “I won’t take anything to eat--at least I’d rather not.”
“Oh, I don’t want you to do anything you’d rather not!” cried Edith quickly. “I want you to be happy; don’t you think--don’t you think, Leslie, we might be friends?”
Leslie eyed her fixedly. She had not laughed at him, nor asked how old he was, nor offered to kiss him; she had done nothing really wrong, and there was something quite friendly and shining in her eyes--probably magic--but certainly shining.