Lizzie shook her head again, and returned, with a quiet smile: “I always advised him as you advise him. Did I not, Charley?”
“Well, never mind that now,” said the boy. “How are you getting on?”
“Very well, Charley. I want for nothing.”
“You have your own room here?”
“Oh yes. Upstairs. And it’s quiet, and pleasant, and airy.”
“And she always has the use of this room for visitors,” said the person of the house, screwing up one of her little bony fists, like an opera-glass, and looking through it, with her eyes and her chin in that quaint accordance. “Always this room for visitors; haven’t you, Lizzie dear?”
It happened that Bradley Headstone noticed a very slight action of Lizzie Hexam’s hand, as though it checked the doll’s dressmaker. And it happened that the latter noticed him in the same instant; for she made a double eyeglass of her two hands, looked at him through it, and cried, with a waggish shake of her head: “Aha! Caught you spying, did I?”
It might have fallen out so, anyway; but Bradley Headstone also noticed that immediately after this, Lizzie, who had not taken off her bonnet, rather hurriedly proposed that as the room was getting dark they should go out into the air. They went out; the visitors saying good night to the doll’s dressmaker, whom they left, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed, singing to herself in a sweet thoughtful little voice.
“I’ll saunter on by the river,” said Bradley. “You will be glad to talk together.”
As his uneasy figure went on before them among the evening shadows, the boy said to his sister, petulantly: