My bonnet was ready on the hall-table and I had kept the pink quite fresh to pin on my cloak. We were off in no time and went down the avenue at a brisk pace, while Nichola lurked about the area, pretending to sweep and really devoured with curiosity.
Cornelia Emmeline looked up longingly at all the big, beautiful homes, and down the cross-streets at all that impertinent array of comfort, so hopelessly professional, so out of sympathy with the amateur in domesticity.
“So many homes all fixed up for somebody else,” she said wistfully.
My heart ached as I thought of all the little people, divinely in love, who have looked up at those grim façades with the same thought. Personally, I prefer a flat, but it takes one seventy years to learn even this.
I talked on as well as I could about little in particular and most of all I encouraged her to talk, since I was becoming every moment more excited. For every step was bringing us nearer and nearer to the little chapel, and at last we rounded the corner and were full upon it. A clock in a near-by steeple showed six-fifteen. I looked anxiously up the street and the street was empty.
“Let us,” said I, guilelessly, “go in here and rest awhile.”
Little Nursemaid’s mouth trembled.
“Oh, ma’am—no, please—not in there! I couldn’t go in there to-night,” she stammered.
“Nonsense!” said I sharply, pretending to be very cross. “I am tired and I must have rest.”
She could do nothing but lead me up the steps, but her poor little face was quite white. So was mine, I suspect. Indeed, I fancy that neither of us could have borne matters very much longer. Happily there was no need; for when the double green doors had closed behind us there in the dim anteroom stood the faithful Pelleas and a bewildered Evan—who very naturally failed to understand why a strange old gentleman, whom he had hitherto connected only with egg-phosphates and one red muffler, should have decoyed him from his waiting supper to a chapel of painful association.