"Good position!" echo both Dick (who has just entered the room) and Honor, pricking up their ears.
"Position as a painter," remarks Mrs. Merivale, folding up her letter with dignity. "That is all I need read to you. The rest is all upon business matters."
"Then we may expect to see Mr. Ferrars some time this week, I suppose," says Honor presently. For in his short courteous note he has begged leave to call on Mrs. Merivale, previous to his departure for some distant part of the world where he has some important business to transact.
"I do hope he will let us know beforehand," says Honor, already tormenting herself as to culinary matters, "or else he will be quite certain to choose a day when we have nothing but cold mutton for dinner--and none too much of that, very likely."
"Hooray!" shouts Dick, tossing up his cap. "Fancy little Doris being engaged! Good gracious! the house won't hold her when she comes back!"
"She seems to be very happy," says Honor, who is reading her sister's letter for about the sixth time. "She little thought what would come of her adventure in the wood that day. Dear little Doris, I hope she has a happy life before her."
In the meantime a conversation of quite a different character is going on in the garden, under the drooping boughs of a fine old weeping-ash, the welcome shade of which is much sought by the girls in hot weather.
Molly is seated on a garden chair, working away industriously at something in the dress line, her work-basket on another chair by her side.
Seated just opposite to her is Dr. John Sinclair, his hat lying on the grass at his feet, and his head resting on his arms, which are folded behind it.
"And so this is what you have dropped in for," remarks Molly, shaking out her work.
"Yes," he says, gazing up into the sky. "We were on our way back, and just passing the Rosery gate when Mr. Ned ran out and stopped us. I represented that you would all be expecting Daisy home, that she had only her habit on, that she might be tired. All to no purpose, as I have told you. She must stop to tea, and surely someone could call for her later; and if not, why, Priscilla could take her home. And so," he concludes rather slowly, "I said I would call about eight o'clock. I--I thought perhaps Miss Honor would like to walk up with me in the cool of the evening, you know."
