"Am I?" I say, indignantly; "I am doing nothing of the kind! it is not only my own idea!—ask Algy!"
"Algy!" (with a little accent of scorn), "poor Algy!—he is in such a fit state for judging, is not he?"
We both involuntarily look toward him.
It is his turn now, and his morosity is exchanged for an equally uncomfortable hilarity. His cheeks are flushed; he is laughing loudly, and going in heavily for the champagne. The next moment he is scowling discourteously at his old host, who, with his poor old chuckle entirely drowned, and overcome by an endless sort of choking monotony of cough, is clambering on tottery old legs into the coach, to try and get his share of shelter.
We both laugh a little; and then Barbara speaks again.
"Nancy, I want to say something to you. Just now I heard Roger ask whether there was a fly to be got at the public-house where the horses are put up, and it seems there is; and he has sent for it. You may think that it is for her, but it is not—it is for you! Will you promise me to go home in it, if he asks you?"
I am silent.
"Will you?" she repeats, taking hold of one of my froggy hands, while her eyes shine with a soft and friendly urgency; "you know you always used to take my advice when we were little—will you?"
Somehow, at her words, a little warmth of comfortable reassurance steals about my heart. At home she always used to be right: perhaps she is right now—perhaps I am wrong. I will be even better than her suggestion.
Roger is standing not far from us. The rain has drenched his beard and his heavy mustache: the great drops stand on his eyelashes, and on his straight brows. Perhaps I only imagine it, but to me he looks sad and out of heart. It is not the weather that makes him so, if he is. Much he cares for that!