Part 80 (1/2)

”Oh, I say--then it was all a swindle on the part of Hardy, was it?” he asks. ”Dear Lady Chetwoode, it makes me feel positively young again to see you looking so well. Your woman hinted to me you were at the point of death.”

”Come in, Taffy. You too shall hear what has revived me,” says her ladys.h.i.+p, smiling, and thereupon unfolds her tale to him, over which he beams, and looks blessings on all around.

”I knew it,” he says; ”could have told everybody all about it months ago! couldn't I, Lil? Remember the day I bet you a fiver he would propose to you in six months?”

”I remember nothing of the kind,” says Miss Chesney, horribly shocked.

”Taffy, how can you say such a thing?”

”Tell us all about it, Taffy,” entreats Cyril, languidly, from the depths of an arm-chair. ”I feel so done up with all I have gone through this morning, that I long for a wholesome exciting little tale to rouse me a bit. Go on.”

”Oh, it was only that day at Mrs. Boileau's last autumn,” begins Taffy.

”Taffy, I desire you to be silent,” says Lilian, going up to him and looking very determined. ”Do not attempt to speak when I tell you not to do so.”

”Was the betting even, Taffy?” asks Cyril.

”No. She said----”

”_Taffy!_”

”She said he had as much idea of proposing to her as she had of----”

”Taffy!”

”Marrying him, even should he ask her,” winds up Mr. Musgrave, exploding with joy over his discomfiting disclosure.

”No one believes you,” says Lilian, in despair, while they all laugh heartily, and Cyril tells her not to make bad bets in future.

”Not one,” says Sir Guy, supporting her as in duty bound; ”but I really think you ought to give him that five pounds.”

”Certainly I shall not,” says Miss Chesney, hotly. ”It is all a fabrication from beginning to end. I never made a bet in my life. And, besides, the time he named was the end of the year, and _not_ in six months.”

At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for a walk, lest she should commit herself any further.

The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening, though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over the remembrance of his grief and disappointment.

Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her, for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She--Miss Beauchamp--has been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself on the occasion even more _empresse_ than usual; has returned, and is now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools and glory.

Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of wool. Having finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative of relief.

”Thanks. Will you do another?” asks Florence.

”No,--oh, no,” hastily. Then, laughing, ”You mustn't think me uncivil,”

she says, ”but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these interminable b.a.l.l.s. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not faster.”

”And are you going to sit there doing nothing?” asks Florence, glancing at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit.

”I am almost sure of it,” she answers, complacently, horrifying the proper Florence being one of her chief joys. ”I am never really happy until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing 'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as a tiresome lunatic.”