“No, father said I was to.”

“And you look upon it as a great penance?” he says, still with that half-disappointed accent.

“To be sure I do,” reply I, briskly.  “So does Barbara.  Ask her if she does not.  So would you, if you were I.”

“And why?”

“Hush!” say I, hearing a certain heavy, well-known, slow footfall.  “He is coming!  I will tell you by-and-by—­when we are by ourselves.”

After all, how convenient an elderly man is!  I could not have said that to any of the young squires!

His blue eyes are smiling in the firelight, as, leaning one strong shoulder against the mantel-piece, he turns to face me more fully.

“And when are we likely to be by ourselves?”

“Oh, I do not know,” reply I, indifferently.  “Any time.”

And then father enters, and I am dumb.  Presently, dinner is announced, and we walk in; I on father’s arm.  He addresses me several times with great bonhomie and I respond with nervous monosyllables.  Father is always suavity itself to us, when we have guests; but, when one is not in the habit of being treated with affability, it is difficult to enter into the spirit of the joke.  Several times I catch our guest’s frank eyes, watching me with inquiring wonder, as I respond with brief and low-voiced hurry to some of my parent’s friendly and fatherly queries as to the disposition of my day.  And I sit tongue-tied and hungry—­for, thank God, I have always had a large appetite—­dumb as the butler and footman—­dumb as the racing-cups on the sideboard—­dumber than Vick, who, being a privileged person, is standing—­very tall—­on her hind-legs, and pawing Sir Roger’s coat-sleeve, with a small, impatient whine.

“Why, Nancy, child!” says father, helping himself to sweetbread, and smiling, “what made you in such a hurry to get away this morning out of the park?”

(Why can’t he always speak in that voice? always smile?—­even his nose looks a different shape.)

“Near—­luncheon-time,” reply I, indistinctly, with my head bent so low that my nose nearly touches the little square of bare neck that my muslin frock leaves exposed.

“Not a bit of it—­half an hour off.—­Why, Roger, I am afraid you had not been making yourself agreeable! eh, Nancy?”

“No,” say I, mumbling, “that is—­yes—­quite so.”

“I was very agreeable, as it happened—­rather more brilliant than usual, if possible, was not I?  And, to clear my character, and prove that you thought so, you will take me out for another walk, some day, will not you?”

At the sound of his voice so evidently addressing me, I look up—­look at him.