"And have you no better luck, either?" I say, more cheerfully. "Is there no talk of your—of Mr. Huntley coming back?"
Her eyelids droop: her breast heaves in a placid sigh.
"Not the slightest, I am afraid."
What to say next? I have had enough of asking after her child. I will not fall into that error again. Ask who all the men in the rococo frames are?—which of them, or whether any, is Mr. Huntley? On consideration, I decide not to do this either; and, after one or two more stunted attempts at talk, I take my leave. I ask Algy to accompany me just down the drive, and with a most grudging and sulky air of unwillingness he complies. Alas! he always used to like to be with us girls. The ponies are fresh, and we have almost reached the gate before I speak, with a difficult hesitation.
"Algy," say I, "did you happen to notice that—that bracelet?"
He does not answer. He is looking the other way, and turns only the back of his head toward me.
"It was from Hunt and Roskell," I say.
"Oh!"
"It must have—must have—come to a good deal," I go on, timidly.
He has turned his face to me now. I cannot complain, but indeed, as it now is, I prefer the back of his head, so white and headstrong does he look.