"_Yours_ on the right--_mine_ on the left," he repeats. "Yes--I see--I
shall make no more mistakes--unless I make one on purpose."

"Do not come without telling us beforehand!" I cry, earnestly. "I mean
_really_: if you hold a vague threat of paying us a visit over our
heads, you will keep us in a state of unnatural tidiness for days."

I make a move toward retiring, but he still has hold of my hand.

"And about our walk?"

The others--boys and girls--have passed us: the servants have melted out
of sight; so has mother; father is speaking to the butler in the
passage--we are alone.

"Yes? what about it?" I ask, my eyes calmly resting on his.

"You will not forget it?"

"Not I!" reply I, lightly. "I want to hear the end of the anecdote about
father's nose! I cannot get over the idea of him in a stiff white
petticoat: I thought of it at dinner, whenever I looked at him!"

At the mention of father, his face falls a little.

"Nancy," he says, abruptly, taking possession of my other hand also,
"why did you answer your father so shortly to-day? Why did you look so
scared when he tried to joke with you?"