"I believe I should," she admitted. "I should love to see him again."
"He'll turn up at Aunt Wenman's, I'll bet you," Chevenix felt sure. "She
rakes 'em in--all sorts. Do you think about her, now, there's a dear. You
won't be able to stick it at home, you know."
"I am sure that I shan't go home," Sanchia said. "And I _am_ thinking
about your aunt."
"Right," cried Chevenix, and briskly mounted the steps of the cathedral.
Mr. Percival had provided a tea for her which had the appearance of a
banquet. The table seemed sunk in flowers; a great urn held the tea. There
were buns in pyramids, snow-mantled cakes, apricot jam, strawberries,
clotted cream. Nothing was too good for his beloved, as he cried aloud
when he saw her, fresh and glowing in her lace frock and flower-wreathed
hat.
"My girl--and upon my soul, a picture!"
She blushed at his praises, and came within kissing distance. "You make a
school-treat of me, dearest. You mustn't be wicked with your money, or I
shan't come any more to see you. I won't be spoiled."
"No, my dear, no--and you can't be," he assured her. "Good Lord, my child,
you're the only one I've got left. All my birds flown but you! And I had
five of the sweetest, sauciest, happiest girls in England once upon a
time.
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