" Lucy nodded. She
remembered their last evening at Florence--the packing, the
candle, the shadow of Miss Bartlett's toque on the door. She was
not to be trapped by pathos a second time. Eluding her cousin's
caress, she led the way downstairs.
"Try the jam," Freddy was saying. "The jam's jolly good."
George, looking big and dishevelled, was pacing up and down the
dining-room. As she entered he stopped, and said:
"No--nothing to eat."
"You go down to the others," said Lucy; "Charlotte and I will
give Mr. Emerson all he wants. Where's mother?"
"She's started on her Sunday writing. She's in the drawing-room."
"That's all right. You go away."
He went off singing.
Lucy sat down at the table. Miss Bartlett, who was thoroughly
frightened, took up a book and pretended to read.
She would not be drawn into an elaborate speech. She just said:
"I can't have it, Mr. Emerson. I cannot even talk to you. Go out
of this house, and never come into it again as long as I live
here--" flushing as she spoke and pointing to the door.
Pages:
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304