"You are a good child," she says, and goes away.
I wonder if he will be in church? Yes, he is there, as I discover twenty minutes later, and he gives me a friendly look as I go up the aisle behind Mrs. Fleming. That old heathen Lady Flytton never goes to church. The Buffs give me a smile or two, and I wink affectionately at Mary Burns at a favourable opportunity. In the porch outside, when the service is over, I find Mr. Vasher, which is lucky; for supposing I had been obliged to run after him?
"And when are you coming back, little one?" he asks.
"Soon! To-morrow! Some time!" I say, flounderingly, then I thrust the note into his hand and flee.
"Did you give it him?" asks Silvia, as we are walking in the garden after luncheon.
"Yes."
"How hot it is!" she says, shrugging her shoulders, "there is a storm brewing!"
She speaks truth, the morning was sultry, the afternoon is worse, the air is charged and heavy with heat, the skies are closing in, black as night, the very birds have ceased singing: all creation seems to be holding its breath, awaiting one of nature's fierce convulsions. With the same instinct that has sent all the animals to their hiding-places, I go in, leaving Silvia pacing up and down, with clasped hands, and an intent look of listening upon her face. I am not ashamed to confess it, I am horribly, terribly afraid of a thunderstorm; the dread crack of the awful, invisible hosts above always makes me shiver, and through my eyelids the lightning seems to strike and blind me. After all, I must be a coward, for Jack does not mind it at all; he opens his eyes wide, and never puts his fingers in his ears. The sisters are fast asleep in a remote corner of the queer-shaped, many-angled room; every now and then a gentle snore attests to their happy unconsciousness. When
