' On hospitable thoughts intent.'
' Positively he is coming !' says Mr. Massereene, with an
air of the most profound astonishment.
' Who ?' asks Molly, curiously, pausing with her toast in
midair (they are at breakfast), and with her lovely eyes
twice their usual goodly size. Her lips, too, are apart; but
whether in anticipation of the news or the toast, it would be
difficult to decide. ' Is anyone coming here 1'
' Even here. This letter'—regarding, with a stricken
conscience, the elegant scrawl in his hand—' is from Ted-
castle George Luttrell (he is evidently proud of his name),
declaring himself not only ready but fatally willing to accept
my invitation to spend a month with me.'
' A month !' says Molly, amazsd. ' And you never said
a word about it, John.'
'A month!' says Letitia, dismayed. 'What on earth,
John, is anyone to do with anyone for a month down here ?'
' I wish I knew,' replies Mr. Massereene, getting more
and more stricken as he notices his wife's dejection, and
gazing at Molly as though for inspiration. ' What evil
genius possessed me that I didn't say a fortnight ? But, to
tell you the honest truth, Letty, it never occurred to me
that he might come.'
' Then why did you ask him 1' says Letitia as sharply as
is possible for her. ' When writing you might have an¬
ticipated so much—people generally do.'