"This is Thursday? Suppose we say, next week?"
"Next week! That is waiting very long. Where is she? I will go to see her."
"Quite unnecessary," said Mr. Digby rising. "As soon as she is ready, and
I am ready, I will bring her; but not before Monday or Tuesday."
"Mr. Southwode," said Mrs. Busby, with a mixture of suspicion and raillery in her look, which was but indifferently compounded, "if my niece were a few years older, I should begin to suspect that you had reasons for being unwilling to put her out of your care."
The young man met her eyes with the grave, careless composure which was habitual with him.
"I have reasons," he said. "And I am not going to put her 'out of my care.' I am only purposing to allow you, for the time being, a share in the care, Mrs. Busby. A trust that is given to me, I do not resign."
The lady shut her lips a little tight.
"What school is your daughter attending?" Mr. Southwode went on.
"I am not sure where I shall send her this year. She has been going— But
I am thinking of making a change. I do not know yet where she will be."
The gentleman remarked, that could be talked of another time; and took his leave. Every trace of smiles disappeared from Mrs. Busby's face as he closed the door behind him. She stepped to the window and drew down the linen shade where the sun was coming too brightly in; and then she stood for some minutes upon the hearth rug, grave and thoughtful, one eyebrow arched in meditation as society never saw it arched. Her concluding thought might be summed up thus:—"When she is under my care, my young gentleman, I think she will not be under yours. Preposterous!"