Part 50 (2/2)

Then she kisses her hand to him and drops at his feet the rose that has lain on her bosom all the evening, and, with a last backward glance and smile, flits away from him up the darkened staircase and vanishes.

”I shall positively lose my heart to her if I don't take care,” thinks the young man, ruefully, and very foolishly, considering how long ago it is since that misfortune has befallen him. But we are ever slow to acknowledge our own defeats. His eyes are fixed upon the flower at his feet.

”No, I do not want her flowers,” he says, with a slight frown, pus.h.i.+ng it away from him disdainfully. ”It was a mere chance my getting it. Any other fellow in my place at the moment would have been quite as favored,--nay, beyond doubt more so. I will not stoop for it.”

With his dignity thus forced to the front, he walks the entire length of the hall, his arms folded determinedly behind him, until he reaches a door at the upper end.

Here he pauses and glances back almost guiltily. Yes, it is still there, the poor, pretty yellow blossom that has been so close to her, now sending forth its neglected perfume to an ungrateful world.

It is cruel to leave it there alone all night, to be trodden on, perhaps, in the morning by an unappreciative John or Thomas, or, worse still, to be worn by an appreciative James. Desecration!

”'Who hesitates is lost,'” quotes Stafford, aloud, with an angry laugh at his own folly, and, walking deliberately back again, picks up the flower and presses it to his lips.

”I thought that little speech applied only to us poor women,” says a soft voice above him, as, to his everlasting chagrin, Cecil's mischievous, lovable face peers down at him from the gallery overhead.

”Have another flower, Sir Penthony? You seem fond of them.”

She throws a twin-blossom to the one he holds on to his shoulder as she speaks with very accurate aim.

”It was yours,” stammers Sir Penthony, utterly taken aback.

”_So_ it was,”--with an accent of affected surprise,--”which makes your behavior all the more astonis.h.i.+ng. Well, do not stand there kissing it all night, or you will catch cold, and then--what _should_ I do?”

”What?”

”Die of grief, most probably.” With a little mocking laugh.

”Very probably. Yet you should pity me too, in that I have fallen so low as to have nothing better given me to kiss. I am wasting my sweetness on----”

”Is it sweetness?” asks she, wickedly.

At this they both laugh,--a low, a soft laugh, born of the hour and a fear of interruption, and perhaps a dread of being so discovered, that adds a certain zest to their meeting. Then he says, still laughing, in answer to her words, ”Try.”

”No, thank you.” With a little _moue_. ”Curiosity is not my besetting sin, although I could not resist seeing how you would treat my parting gift a moment ago. Ah!”--with a little suppressed laugh of the very fullest enjoyment,--”you cannot think what an interesting picture you made,--almost tragic. First you stalked away from my unoffending rose with all the dignity of a thousand Spaniards; and then, when you had gone sufficiently far to make your return effective, you relented, and, seizing upon the flower as though it were--let us say, for convenience sake--_myself_, devoured it with kisses. I a.s.sure you it was better than a play. Well,”--with a sigh,--”I won't detain you any longer. I'm off to my slumbers.”

”Don't go yet, Cecil. Wait one moment. I--have something to say to you.”

”No doubt. A short time since you said the same thing. Were I to stay now you might, perhaps, finish that scolding; instinct told me it was hanging over me; and--I hate being taken to task.”

”I will not, I swear I will never again attempt to scold you about anything, experience having taught me the futility of such a course.

Cecil, stay.”

”Lady Stafford, if you please, Sir Penthony.” With a tormenting smile.

”Lady Stafford then,--anything, if you will only stay.”

”I can't, then. Where should I be without my beauty sleep? The bare idea fills me with horror. Why, I should lose my empire. Sweet as parting is, I protest I, for one, would not lengthen it until to-morrow. Till then--farewell. And--Sir Penthony--be sure you dream of me. I like being dreamed of by my----”

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