"My goodness, yes!" exclaims Doris excitedly, "I ought to have been home ages ago."
"I am so sorry," says Mr. Ferrars holding out his hand, "that I cannot accompany you home; but I fear it is impossible. I shall hope to meet you, however, some day at your aunt's. Good-bye, and thank you for the pleasant hour's talk we have had, and which I have thoroughly enjoyed." And first stooping to pick up Doris's book from the grass, on which it has been lying unnoticed ever since it fell there, he lifts his hat and walks away at a brisk pace, looking back once, before he turns off the path, to smile and wave his hand to her.
"A nice unaffected little girl," thinks Lancelot Ferrars to himself as he walks quickly towards the station. "I hope I shall see her again some day, poor child!"
And Doris, as she calls Vic to follow her, says softly to herself, "Lancelot! Lancelot Ferrars! What a pretty name! And what a nice, gentlemanly fellow he seems. Just the sort of man poor father would have liked, I think. I wonder if I shall ever see him again. I suppose not."
When Doris gets home she finds them all seated at dinner, partaking of the pea-soup, which appears to be popular. Honor and Molly seem to be rather elated about something concerning themselves, and Doris is inclined to be put out at the scant attention they give to the account of her adventure in the wood.
Only Dick and Mrs. Merivale appear at all interested in her story; the former beginning without loss of time to tease his sister about her "knight of the woods." When there is once more a little quiet, it transpires that the postman has arrived in Doris's absence, and besides bringing letters for Mrs. Merivale and Molly, from Hugh Horton, telling them of his having obtained his commission, and of the probability of his leaving soon for Ireland after all, there is one for Doris from her aunt, and also a newspaper with an advertisement marked with a large cross in red ink, to which Lady Woodhouse begs Honor will give her particular attention.
This is to the effect that persons with any knowledge of painting can easily earn a pound weekly, by painting on tin--the latest novelty in art, and greatly in demand. Then the advertisement goes on to say that by applying at a certain place in the town, those desirous of taking up this very remunerative employment can be instructed in this branch of art in two lessons, at one-and-six each.