'Yes; thank God, it is that!'
'Mr Wentworth and Miss Haddon! I had not the least idea of finding you here!' It was Mrs Chichester speaking, with the prettiest air of surprise as she emerged from the side-path, though the keen glance with which she measured the distance between him and me was not unobserved by one of us. 'What a delightful retreat! May I join you?'—sitting down by my side with a graceful little addendum about feeling fatigued, and having found herself somewhat de trop with the lovers.
'And gentlemen are so very frank with sisters in such cases—are they not? Are you blest with brothers, Miss Haddon?' And so on, a list of questions which brought out the facts that I was not only lacking in brothers, but many other blessings.
'Quite alone in the great world, and an orphan. How very sad!'
Someway, whenever Mrs Chichester attempted to talk sentiment, it was apt to degenerate into bathos; more perhaps from the contrast between her face and manner and what she said, than from the words themselves.
'And past the age for charity schools, Mrs Chichester,' I smilingly replied.
'Oh, but indeed, indeed, you must not think I meant anything of that kind!' Then, turning towards Mr Wentworth in a pretty distressed way, she entreated him to help her to persuade me that she had really meant no harm. 'I assure you I had not the slightest intention to give offence; do, pray, believe it, Miss Haddon.'
Mrs Chichester was always so terribly afraid of offending Miss Haddon, and so extremely and obviously cautious lest any word of hers should remind me of my position.
'Unfortunately the facts remain, however kind you may be about it, Mrs Chichester,' I gravely replied. 'I am an orphan, and alone in the great world.'