Part 93 (2/2)

”Come back here, you bad child,” says Margaret, laughing now, ”and listen to me for a little while longer. You know, t.i.ta, darling, that I have your interest, and yours only, at heart. Promise me you will at least think of what Maurice proposes.”

”Oh, I've promised _him_ that,” says t.i.ta, frowning.

”You have?” cries Margaret. ”Oh, you _good_ girl! Come! that's right. And so you parted not altogether at war? How glad I am! And he--he was glad, too. He”--anxiously--”he said----”

”He said he was coming again to-morrow,” with apparent disgust.

”To get your answer?”

”Oh, I suppose so! I don't know, I'm sure,” with such a sharp gesture as proves to Margaret her patience has come to an end. ”Let us forget it--put it from us--while we can.” She laughs nervously.

”You see what a temper I have! He will repent his bargain, I think--if I do consent. Come, let us talk of something else, Meg--of you.”

”Of me?”

”What better subject? Tell me what Colonel Neilson was saying to you in that window this evening,” pointing to the one farthest off.

”Nothing--nothing at all. He is so stupid,” says Margaret, blus.h.i.+ng crimson. ”He really never sees me without proposing all over again, as if there was any good in it.”

”And what did you say this time?”

Margaret grows confused.

”Really, dearest, I was so taken up thinking of you and Maurice,”

says she, with a first (and most flagrant) attempt at dissimulation, ”that I believe I forgot to--to--say anything.”

t.i.ta gives way to a burst of irrepressible laughter.

”I like that,” says she. ”Well, at all events, by your own showing, you didn't say _no.”_

CHAPTER XXVIII.

HOW t.i.tA RECEIVES A BASKET OF FLOWERS AND AN ENTREATY; AND HOW SHE CEASES TO FIGHT AGAINST HER DESTINY.

It is quite early, barely eleven o'clock, and a most lovely morning.

t.i.ta and Margaret, who have just settled down in the latter's boudoir, presumably to write their letters, but actually to have a little gossip, are checked by the entrance of a servant, who brings something to t.i.ta and lays it on the table beside her.

”With Sir Maurice Rylton's compliments,” says the servant.

”What is it?” says t.i.ta, when he has gone, with the air of one who instinctively knows, but would prefer to go on guessing about it.

”Not dynamite, a.s.suredly,” says Margaret. ”What a delightful basket!”

”What can be inside it?”

<script>