Part 39 (2/2)
”That doesn't follow,” said Victor, ”any more than it would follow that Miss Wynkar had visited the desert of Sahara, if a straw hat similar to the one she has in her hand, should be found there.”
”Mr. Viennet, you are not sufficiently calm for such difficult reasoning. The fact is established; don't attempt to controvert it,”
said Josephine.
”In any case, I am ent.i.tled to the flower, I think,” he returned, taking it from the table, and fastening it in his b.u.t.ton-hole.
”No one will dispute it with you, I fancy,” said Josephine, with a laugh.
”You seem to have marked your way with morning-glories,” said Mr.
Rutledge, who, sitting by the table, was turning over the leaves of a book. There was another, crushed and faded, and staining the leaves with its purple blood.
”One can hardly believe they are contemporaries,” said Victor, ”mine is so much fresher.”
”They are the frailest and shortest-lived of flowers,” said Mr.
Rutledge, tossing the flower away. ”Hardly worth the pa.s.sing admiration that their beauty excites.”
CHAPTER XXVI.
”If hope but deferred causeth sickness of heart, What sorrow, to see it forever depart.”
”This rain knocks the pic-nic all in the head,” said Phil, lounging into the breakfast-room, ”and everybody's sure of being in a bad humor on account of the disappointment. What shall we all do with ourselves?”
”Play billiards, can't we?” said the captain.
”I hate billiards, for my part,” said Grace, looking dismally out of the window. ”And Josephine's ankle's too bad to play, and Ellerton isn't well enough, and my pretty cousin there never did anything she was asked to yet; and Mr. Viennet consequently will refuse, and Phil's too lazy, and mamma won't take the trouble, and Mr. Rutledge has letters to write; so I think you'll be at a loss for anybody to play with you, Captain McGuffy.”
”So it would seem,” said the captain, consoling himself with some breakfast. ”I can't see anything better to be done than this, then.”
”It is rather your vocation, I think,” returned Grace. ”But with the rest of us, it is an enjoyment that at best cannot last over an hour, and there are twelve to be got rid of before bed-time.”
”It _is_ trying,” said Josephine. ”And I've no more crimson for my sofa-cus.h.i.+on, and no chance of matching it nearer than Norbury. I really don't know what I shall do all day.”
”If one only had a good novel!” yawned Ella Wynkar. ”But there isn't anything worth reading in the library. I wonder Mr. Rutledge doesn't get some interesting books.”
”There he comes; ask him,” said Grace, maliciously.
”No, I don't like to. Mr. Rutledge is so odd, there's no knowing how he might take it.”
Mr. Rutledge entered at this moment, followed by Tigre, and Miss Wynkar, partly because she was glad of anything to amuse herself with, and partly for the sake of a pretty att.i.tude, sprung forward and caught the dog in her arms.
”Take care! he's just been out in the rain,” exclaimed Mr. Rutledge, but not in time to save the pretty morning dress from Tigre's muddy paws; and with an exclamation of disgust she threw down the dog, who, whining piteously from a blow against the table, came limping over to me.
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