we three—yes, really. And now we're all right again it's true. But—anyhow—say you forgive me?"
"Oh, it was only nonsense," said Lucilla, bold in the autumn sunshine; "don't let's fuss. You might carry these into the shop for me, will you?" She pressed a bundle of stiff twiggy, dewy-wet chrysanthemums on him and went on down the row, snipping busily here and there among the foam of flowers, creamy and pink and golden. She cut far more than were needed and carried them to the shop. Here she resolved to stay till Jane should have dealt with Miss Antrobus; though she had a sinking feeling that it would rather be Miss Antrobus who would deal with Jane.
Gladys was there, of course, and all Gladys's talk was of Mr. Thornton—the one called Bill. Unerring instinct, a sort of impish clairvoyance, guided Gladys in all matters pertaining to "walking out" and the sentiments which lead to such perambulations. Lucilla felt hotly that Gladys knew, as well as if she had been present, that there had been "something" last night, something not quite in the usual order of things, between her and "that Mr. Thornton—the one as ain't married."
"When he come in just now," said Gladys, "with them flowers, I knew that instant minute as he'd got something on his mind. Do you think his young lady's been being 'aughty to him, miss?"
"I'm sure I don't know," said Lucilla.
"I should think twice afore I cast him off for ever, if I was her. He's a gentleman, he is—his hair-brushes has silver backs. Oh no, that's Mrs. Thornton, to be sure, but it's all in the family. And he gives me five bob when I sewed on the bows on his evening shoes."
Lucilla defended herself with the heaviest of the account-books.
"Don't talk," she said. "I'm busy. In fact you might as well go and see if you can help Mrs. Doveton. I'll take the shop for an hour or two."
"If I was his young lady I should throw him a kind
