home. I shall always be happy to execute any commands you may have in that direction.”
“Pray what may you mean, Mr. Rokesmith?” inquired Miss Bella, with languidly drooping eyelids.
“By home? I mean your father’s house at Holloway.”
She coloured under the retort—so skilfully thrust, that the words seemed to be merely a plain answer, given in plain good faith—and said, rather more emphatically and sharply:
“What commissions and commands are you speaking of?”
“Only little words of remembrance as I assume you send somehow or other,” replied the Secretary with his former air. “It would be a pleasure to me if you would make me the bearer of them. As you know, I come and go between the two houses every day.”
“You needn’t remind me of that, sir.”
She was too quick in this petulant sally against “Pa’s lodger”; and she felt that she had been so when she met his quiet look.
“They don’t send many—what was your expression?—words of remembrance to me ,” said Bella, making haste to take refuge in ill-usage.
“They frequently ask me about you, and I give them such slight intelligence as I can.”
“I hope it’s truly given,” exclaimed Bella.
“I hope you cannot doubt it, for it would be very much against you, if you could.”
“No, I do not doubt it. I deserve the reproach, which is very just indeed. I beg your pardon, Mr. Rokesmith.”