And Daisy looked imploringly at her stepmother.
"D’you mean now—this minute?" asked Mrs. Bunting tartly.
"No, o’ course not"—Bunting broke in hastily. "How you do go on, Ellen!"
"What day did your mother mention would be convenient to her?" asked Mrs. Bunting, looking at the young man satirically.
Chandler hesitated. His mother had not mentioned any special day—in fact, his mother had shown a surprising lack of anxiety to see Daisy at all. But he had talked her round.
"How about Saturday?" suggested Bunting. "That’s Daisy’s birthday. ’Twould be a birthday treat for her to go to Richmond, and she’s going back to Old Aunt on Monday."
"I can’t go Saturday," said Chandler disconsolately.
"I’m on duty Saturday."
"Well, then, let it be Sunday," said Bunting firmly. And his wife looked at him surprised; he seldom asserted himself so much in her presence.
"What do you say, Miss Daisy?" said Chandler.
"Sunday would be very nice," said Daisy demurely. And then, as the young man took up his hat, and as her stepmother did not stir, Daisy ventured to go out into the hall with him for a minute.
Chandler shut the door behind them, and so was spared the hearing of Mrs. Bunting’s whispered remark: "When I was a young woman folk didn’t gallivant about on Sunday; those who was courting used to go to church together, decent-like"
