Part 10 (1/2)

”After I declined to a.s.sist him in the surgery,” says Molly, demurely.

”It was a dreadful thing,--the poisoning, I mean,--and caused a great deal of scandal. I don't believe it was anybody's fault, but I certainly did pity the man he killed. And--it might have been me, you know; think of that! He was very much attached to me; and so was the Lefroys' eldest son, and James Warder, and the organist, to say nothing of the baker's boy, who, I am convinced, would cut his throat to oblige me to-morrow morning, if I asked him.”

”Well, don't ask him,” says Luttrell, imploringly. ”He might do it on the door-step, and then think of the horrid mess! Promise me you won't even hint at it until after I am gone.”

”I promise,” says Molly, laughing.

Onward glides the boat; the oars rise and fall with a tuneful splash.

Miss Ma.s.sereene, throwing her hat with reckless extravagance into the bottom of the punt, bares her white arm to the elbow and essays to catch the gra.s.ses as she sweeps by them.

”Look at those lilies,” she says, eagerly; ”how exquisite, in their broad green frames! Water-sprites! how they elude one!” as she makes a vigorous but unsuccessful grab at some on her right hand.

”Very beautiful,” says Luttrell, dreamily, with his eyes on Molly, not on the lilies.

”I want some,” says Molly, revengefully; ”I always do want what don't want me, and _vice versa_. Oh! look at those beauties near you.

Catch them.”

”I don't think I can; they are too far off.”

”Not if you stoop very much for them. I think if you were to bend over a good deal you might do it.”

”I might; I might do something else, too,” says Luttrell, calmly, seeing it would be as easy for him to grasp the lilies in question as last night's moon: ”I might fall in.”

”Oh, never mind that,” responds Molly, with charming though premeditated unconcern, a little wicked desire to tease getting the better of her amiability.

Luttrell, hardly sure whether she jests or is in sober earnest, opens his large eyes to their fullest, the better to judge, but, seeing no signs of merriment in his companion, gives way to his feelings a little.

”Well, you _are_ cool,” he says, slowly.

”I am not, indeed,” replies innocent Molly. ”How I wish I _were_ 'cool,' on such a day as this! Are _you_?”

”No,” shortly. ”Perhaps that is the reason you recommended me a plunge; or is it for your amus.e.m.e.nt?”

”You are afraid,” a.s.serts Molly, with a little mischievous, scornful laugh, not to be endured for a moment.

”Afraid!” angrily. ”Nonsense! I don't care about wetting my clothes, certainly, and I don't want to put out my cigar; but”--throwing away the choice Havana in question--”you shall have your lilies, of course, if you have set your heart on them.”

Here, standing up, he strips off his coat with an air that means business.

”I don't want them now,” says Molly, in a degree frightened, ”at least not those. See, there are others close behind you. But I will pluck them myself, thank you: I hate giving trouble. No, don't put your hands near them. I won't have them if you do.”

”Why?”

”Because you are cross, and I detest cross people.”

”Because I didn't throw myself into the water head foremost to please you?” with impatient wrath. ”They used to call that chivalry long ago.

I call it folly. You should be reasonable.”

”Oh, don't lose your temper about it,” says Molly.