“It would have been better to have had John,” Honora said; “for he could have gone home with me. I am the troublesome third, as it is. But then,” speaking lightly, “if I am the last, Lawrence will be obliged to go in early.”
With another twitch of her shawl, Annette took her escort’s arm again as abruptly as she had left it, and, held it closely.
Careless as the last words had sounded, she knew their meaning, for there had been something said on this subject before. She chose to take it defiantly now, and it comforted her to do so. Others might blame and doubt him, but she would not. He seemed nearer to her in the light of her superior devotedness than to any one else. She would never fail him; and by-and-by he would know her worth. The glow of this fervent hope warmed the girl’s chilled heart, and gave her a sort of happiness.
And so they reached the house, and, after a quiet good-night, separated.
The walk back was passed in silence; and Miss Pembroke did not choose to lean on her companion’s arm; she wished to hold her dress out of the dust.
The street they went through was one of those delightful old ones which a city sometimes leaves untouched for a long time. Over-arching elms grew thickly on either side, and the houses were all detached.
Midway up this street stood the cottage of the Geralds, with a garden in front and at the back, and a narrow green at right and left. Three long windows in front, lighting the parlor, reached almost to the ground. The steep roof slanted to a veranda at each side, leaving but one upper window over the three—a wide window with casements swinging back from the middle. The cottage was in the shape of a cross, and at one arm of it a lighted window shone out on the veranda.
At sound of the gate-latch, the curtain was drawn aside a little, and a woman looked out an instant, then hastened to open the door.
“Are we late, Mrs. Gerald?” Honora asked, and stepped forward into the sitting-room.