Part 29 (2/2)

”We must be; we are friends,” returns he, hastily, so full of surprise and self-reproach as to be almost unconscious of his words.

Is this the country cousin full of freckles and _mauvaise honte_, who was to be pitied, and lectured, and taught generally how to behave?--whose ignorance was to draw forth groans from pit and gallery and boxes? A hot blush at his own unmeant impertinence thrills him from head to foot. Were she ever, by any chance, to hear what he had said.

Oh, perish the thought!--it is too horrible!

A little laugh from Molly somewhat restores his senses.

”You should not stare so,” she says, severely, with an adorable attempt at a frown. ”And you need not look at me all at once, you know, because, as I am going to stay here a whole month, you will have plenty of time to do it by degrees, without fatiguing yourself. By the bye,”

reproachfully, ”I have come a journey to-day, and am dreadfully tired, and you have never even offered me a chair; must I get one for myself?”

”You have driven any manners I may possess out of my head,” replies he, laughing, too, and pus.h.i.+ng toward her the coziest chair the room contains. ”Your sudden entrance bewildered me; you came upon me like an apparition; more especially as people in this house never get to the drawing-room until exactly one minute before dinner is announced.”

”Why?”

”Lest we should bore each other past forgiveness. Being together as we are every day, and all day long, one can easily imagine how a very little more pressure would smash the chains of politeness. You may have heard of the last straw and its disastrous consequences?”

”I have. I am sorry I frightened you. To-morrow night I shall know better, and shall leave you to your silent musings in peace.”

”No; don't do that!” says her companion, earnestly. ”On no account do that. I think the half-hour before dinner, sitting by the fire, alone, as we are now, the best of the whole day; that is, of course, if one spends it with a congenial companion.”

”Are you a congenial companion?”

”I don't know,” smiling. ”If you will let me, I can at least try to be.”

”Try, then, by all means.” In a moment or two,--”I should like to fathom your thoughts,” says Molly. ”When I came in, there was more than bewilderment in your face; it showed--how shall I express it? You looked as though you had expected something else?”

”Will you forgive me if I say I did?”

”What, then? A creature tall, gaunt, weird----?”

”No.”

”Fat, red, uncomfortable?”

This touches so nearly on the truth as to be unpleasant. He winces.

”I will tell you what I did not expect,” he says, hastily, coloring a little. ”How should I? It is so seldom one has the good luck to discover in autumn a rose belonging to June.”

His voice falls.

”Am I one?” asks she, looking with dangerous frankness into the dark eyes above her, that are telling her silently, eloquently, she is the fairest, freshest, sweetest queen of flowers in all the world.

The door opens, and Mr. Amherst enters, then Marcia. Philip straightens himself, and puts on his usual bored, rather sulky expression. Molly smiles upon her grumpy old host. He offers her his arm, Philip does the same to Marcia, and together they gain the dining-room.

It is an old, heavily wainscoted apartment, gloomy beyond words, so immense that the four who dine in it tonight appear utterly lost in its vast centre.

Marcia, in an evening toilet of black and ivory, sits at the head of the table, her grandfather opposite to her. Philip and Molly are _vis-a-vis_ at the sides. Behind stand the footmen, as sleek and well-to-do, and imbecile, as one can desire.

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