"But I said, if all's well?"
"What Rotha petitions for, I petition for also, Mrs. Mowbray," Mr. Southwode added; "and this time with double urgency, for I ask on her account and on mine too."
"You will come," said Rotha. "And," she went on, laying her other hand on Mrs. Mowbray's shoulder,—"And some day, you know, you will give up schooling; and then—then—Mr. Southwode says, you must come and live the rest of your days with us. He says the house is big enough, and you shall have a separate establishment to yourself, if you like."
Mrs. Mowbray looked silently at the eager face so near her, and her eyes gathered a little moisture, a tendency which probably she repelled.
"I expect to die in harness,"—she said, while the two pair of eyes looked steadily into one another.
"In one way—but not in school harness! Don't say anything about it; but when you stop work—this work—your home is there."
The beautiful lips trembled a little, but Mrs. Mowbray would not give way.
"That would be a delightful dream!" she said. "Thank you, my dear. When I am tired out with people and things, I will think of this and be refreshed. Now will you bring Mr. Southwode in to tea?"
She rose and swept on before them, leading the way. Her self-command had been successful. Rotha was less in training, and several tears dropped from her eyes as she followed through the library. She was a little disappointed, and the girl's heart was full. Her eager affection had not got the answer it wanted. Rotha did not mistake her friend's manner; she did not think Mrs. Mowbray was without feeling because she would not shew feeling; nor that her appeal had not met a response due and full, because the response was not given in words. She knew that probably Mrs. Mowbray could not trust herself to put it in words. Nevertheless, she felt a little thrown back and disappointed, and "Monday" was near; and I suppose she felt what any girl feels at such a time, the want of a mother. Rotha had nobody but Mrs. Mowbray, and she was parting from her. Two or three tears fell before she could prevent it. And then Mr. Southwode, who had been watching her, and could read her feelings pretty well, stretched out his hand, took one of hers and drew it through his arm. It was a little thing, but done, as some people can do things, in a way that quite took it out of the category. There was in it, somehow, an assurance of mutual confidence, of understanding, and sympathy, and great tenderness. He had not looked at her, nor spoken, but Rotha's step grew lighter immediately; and in quiet content she followed Mrs. Mowbray up stairs and down and along passages and through one room after another. The tea table was not set in the great dining rooms; they too were sweet with fresh matting, and lay in summer coolness and emptiness, giving a long dusky vista towards the front windows, where the blinds shaded the light and muslin curtains shielded from the dust of the streets. But in the smaller end room at the back the great windows were open, and the sea breeze came in fitfully, and the colours of the evening sky were discernible, and there the table was prepared. What a table! Mrs. Mowbray had gathered all sorts of delicacies together; cold birds, and fruit, and dainty India sweetmeats, and rich cheese of best English make, and a cold ham; together with some very delicate warm tea cakes, which I am afraid Mr. Southwode, being an Englishman, did not appreciate properly.
"Do not think this is our usual and ordinary tea!" Rotha said laughing.
"All this extreme luxury is on your account."