"Oh, don't lecture me for always being out late," she interrupted, provokingly.
"Now don't you say another word, little puss, until your elders consent."
"Very well then, cross elder, go on," said she, taking his hand in hers and rubbing it gently up and down her velvet cheek.
"But perhaps you feel like prattling a little, after coming in," he interrupted, half regretfully, "so, let you begin, tell me where you've been this afternoon, and what you saw, and all about it, and when I've shown you by example what a patient listener is, I shall expect a return of courtesy when my turn comes."
"Well, if it isn't just dreadful to have to yield to the caprices of some people," murmured Honor, with pretended resignation, and then glancing reassuringly up at the kind old face above her, she began—
"This afternoon, didn't you know, we went to the matinee—Miss Reid, Mr. Apley, Aunt Jean, Vivian and the charming Miss Edgeworth, all together.
"To the matinee, eh little one? And did you like it?"
"Well, I love the theatre, any way," argued Honor, "and so I liked the performance to-day, it was rather—exalted."
"Exalted, was it?" Henry Rayne said in a listening sort of repetition, "how exalted?"
"Oh, first a love match—vows of fidelity—a wedding—a neglected wife—a husband that flirts—then quarrels, and tears, and rage, and despair, and the other party that is always a handsome man, to sympathize with the afflicted wife, then jealousy, threats and a duel, and the love match all over again."