Part 53 (2/2)
At this they both laugh so immoderately that presently the lawyer loses all patience, and, taking up his hat, rushes from the room in a greater rage than he could have thought possible, considering that one of his provocators bears a t.i.tle.
They are still laughing when the others enter the room, and insist on learning the secret of their mirth. Tedcastle alone fails to enjoy it.
He is _distrait_, and evidently oppressed with care. Seeing this, Molly takes heart of grace, and, crossing to his side, says, sweetly:
”Do you see how the day has cleared? That lovely sun is tempting me to go out. Will you take me for a walk?”
”Certainly,--if you want to go.” Very coldly.
”But of course I do; and n.o.body has asked me to accompany them; so I am obliged to thrust myself on you. If”--with a bewitching smile--”you won't mind the trouble just this once, I will promise not to torment you again.”
Through the gardens, and out into the shrubberies beyond, they go in silence, until they reach the open; then Molly says, laughing: ”I know you are going to scold me about Mr. Potts. Begin at once, and let us get it over.”
Her manner is so sweet, and she looks so gay, so fresh, so harmless, that his anger melts as dew beneath the sun.
”You need not have let him place his arm around you,” he says, jealously.
”If I hadn't I should have slipped off the pedestal; and what did his arm signify in comparison with that? Think of my grandfather's face; think of mine; think of all the horrible consequences. I should have been sent home in disgrace, perhaps--who knows?--put in prison, and you might 'never, never, see your darling any more.'”
She laughs.
”What a jealous fellow you are, Ted!”
”Am I?”--ruefully. ”I don't think I used to be. I never remember being jealous before.”
”No? I am glad to hear it.”
”Why?”
”Because”--with an adorable glance and a faint pressure of his arm--”it proves to me you have never _loved_ before.”
This tender insinuation blots out all remaining vapors, leaving the atmosphere clear and free of clouds for the rest of their walk, which lasts till almost evening. Just before they reach the house, Luttrell says, with hesitation:
”I have something to say to you, but I am afraid if I do say it you will be angry.”
”Then _don't_ say it,” says Miss Ma.s.sereene, equably. ”That is about the most foolish thing one can do. To make a person angry unintentionally is bad enough, but to know you are going to do it, and to say so, has something about it rash, not to say impertinent. If you are fortunate enough to know the point in the conversation that is sure to rouse me to wrath, why not carefully skirt round it?”
”Because I lose a chance if I leave it unsaid; and you differ so widely from most girls--it may not provoke _you_.”
”Now you compel me to it,” says Molly, laughing. ”What! do you think I could suffer myself to be considered a thing apart? Impossible. No one likes to be thought odd or eccentric except rich old men, and Bohemians, and poets; therefore I insist on following closely in my sisters' footsteps, and warn you I shall be in a furious pa.s.sion the moment you speak, whether or not I am really annoyed. Now go on if you dare?”
”Well, look here,” begins Luttrell, in a conciliating tone.
”There is not the slightest use in your beating about the bush, Teddy,”
says Miss Ma.s.sereene, calmly. ”I am going to be angry, so do not waste time in diplomacy.”
”Molly, how provoking you are!”
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