"Tut, tut, my dear child!" said the major, "you are far too young to call the world a weary world. Please heaven, it shall not be quite such a dreary place for you in time to come. We will begin the change this very evening. We shall just be in time to get a bit of dinner, and then, heigh! for the play."
"The play, dear Major Strickland!" said Janet, with a sudden flush and an eager light in her eyes; "but would Sister Agnes approve of my going to such a place?"
"I scarcely think, poverina, that Sister Agnes would disapprove of any place to which I might choose to take you."
"Forgive me!" cried Janet, "I did not intend you to construe my words in that way."
"I have never construed anything since I was at school fifty years ago," answered the major, laughingly. "Can you tell me now from your heart, little one, that you would not like to go to the play?"
"I should like very, very much to go, and after what has been said I will never forgive you if you do not take me."
"The penalty would be too severe. It is agreed that we shall go."
"To me it seems only seven days instead of seven years since I was last driven through London streets," resumed Janet, as they were crawling up Fleet Street. "The same shops, the same houses, and even, as it seems to me, the same people crowding the pathways; and, to complete the illusion, the same kind travelling companion now as then."
"To me the illusion seems by no means so complete. To London Bridge, seven years ago, I took a simple child of twelve: to-day I bring back a young lady of nineteen--a woman, in point of fact--who, I have no doubt, understands more of flirtation than she does of French, and would rather graduate in coquetry than in crochet-work."
"Take care then, sir, lest I wing my unslaked arrows at you."