Mrs. Tapple's face shone with relief and gladness.
"Well now, Mr. Walden, if it isn't a real blessin' that you happened to look in this mornin'!" she exclaimed--"For now there won't be no delay,--not but what I knew a bit o' French as a gel, an' I'd 'ave made my way to spell it out somehow, no matter how slow,--but there! you're that handy that 'twon't take no time, an' Miss Vancourt will be sure of her message 'avin' gone straight off from here correct,-- an' if they makes mistakes at Riversford, 'twon't be my fault!"
While she thus ran on, Walden was handling the telegraphic apparatus. His back was turned to Maryllia, but he felt her eyes upon him,--as indeed they were,--and there was a slight flush of colour in his bronzed cheeks as he presenty looked round and said: "May I have the telegram?"
"There are two--both for Paris," replied Maryllia, handing him the filled-up forms--"One is quite easy--in English." "And the other quite difficult--in French!"--he laughed. "Let me see if I can make it out correctly." Thereupon he read aloud: "'Louis Gigue, Conservatoire, Paris. Je desire que Cicely passe l'ete avec moi et qu'elle arrive immediatement. Elle peut tres-bien continuer ses etudes ici. Vous pouvez suivre, cher maitre, a votre plaisir.' Is that right?"
Maryllia's eyes opened a little more widely,--like blue flowers wakening to the sun. This country clergyman's pronunciation of French was perfect,--more perfect than her own trained Parisian accent. Mrs. Tapple clasped her dumpy red hands in a silent ecstasy of admiration. 'Passon' knew everything!
"Is it right?" Walden repeated.
Maryllia gave a little start.
"Oh I beg your pardon! Yes--quite right!--thank you ever so much!"
Click-click-click-click! The telegraphic apparatus was at work, and the unofficial operator was entirely engrossed in his business. Mrs. Tapple stood respectfully dumb and motionless, watching him. Maryllia, leaning against the ledge of the office counter, watched him, too. She took quiet observation of the well-poised head, covered with its rich brown-grey waving locks of hair,--the broad shoulders, the white firm muscular hands that worked the telegraphic instrument, and she was conscious of the impression of authority, order, knowledge, and self-possession, which seemed to have come into the little office with him, and to have created quite a new atmosphere. Outside, in the small garden, among mignonette and early flowering sweetpeas, Plato sat on his huge haunches in lion-like dignity, blinking at the sun,--while Walden's terrier Nebbie executed absurd but entirely friendly gambols in front of him, now pouncing down on two forepaws with nose to ground and eyes leering sideways,--now wagging an excited tail with excessive violence to demonstrate goodwill and a desire for amity.--and anon giving a short yelp of suppressed feeling,--to all of which conciliatory approaches Plato gave no other response than a vast yawn and meditative stare.