“Ah! Well, well,” he said, half aloud; “well, good-morning, good-morning; when shall we meet again?”
These last words were addressed to Mrs Franklin and her daughter.
“Really,” replied the former, hardly knowing what to say, “I’m sure, I—”
Mr Rothwell came to the rescue.
“My dear sir, I’m sure I shall be very glad to see you at my house; you don’t go into society much; it’ll do you good to come out a little; you’ll get rid of a few of the cobwebs—from your mind”—he added hastily, becoming painfully conscious that he was treading on rather tender ground when he was talking about cobwebs.
“Wouldn’t Mr Tankardew like to come to our juvenile party on Twelfth Night?” asked Mark with a little dash of mischief in his voice, and a demure look at Mary.
Mrs Franklin bit her lips, and Mr Rothwell frowned.
“A juvenile party at your house?” asked Mr Tankardew, very gravely.
“Only my son’s nonsense, you must pardon him,” said Mr Rothwell; “we always have a young people’s party that night, of course you would be heartily welcome, only—”
“A juvenile party?” asked Mr Tankardew again, very slowly.