"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 ladyship, 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."

"Do you never think it necessary to try to--improve your mind?"

"Does crewel-work improve the mind?" opening her eyes for an instant lazily.

"Certainly; in so far that it leaves time for reflection. There is something soothing about it that a.s.sists the mind. While one works one can reflect."

"Can one?" naughtily: "I couldn't. I can do any number of things, but I am almost positive I couldn't reflect. It means--doesn't it?--going over and over and over again disagreeable scenes, and remembering how much prettier one might have behaved under such and such circ.u.mstances. I call that not only wearying but unpleasant. No, I feel sure I am right.

I shall never, if I can help it, reflect."

"Then you are content to be a mere b.u.t.terfly--an idler on the face of the earth all your days?" asks Florence, severely, taking the high and moral tone she has been successfully cultivating ever since her acquaintance with Mr. Boer.

"As long as I can. Surely when I marry it will be time enough to grow 'useful,' and go in for work generally. You see one can't avoid it then.

Keeping one's husband in order, I have been always told, is an onerous job."

"You intend marrying, then?" Something in the other's tone has roused Florence to curiosity. She sits up and looks faintly interested.

"Yes."

"Soon?"

"Perhaps."

"You are serious?"

"Quite serious."

"Ah!"

A pause. Miss Beauchamp takes up two shades of wool and examines them critically. They are so exactly alike that it can make little difference which she chooses. But she is methodical, and would die rather than make one false st.i.tch in a whole acre of canvas. Having made her choice of the two shades, she returns to the attack.

"I had no idea you liked your cousin so much," she says.

"So much! How much?" says Lilian, quickly turning very red. Her cousin is a sore subject with her just now. "I do not think we are speaking of Archibald."

"No; but I thought you said----"

"Nothing of him, I am sure," still hastily.

"Oh! I beg your pardon. I quite fancied----" Here she pauses, somewhat mystified. Then, "You and he are very good friends, are you not?"

"Very," coldly.

"And yet," with an elephantine attempt at playfulness, "I certainly did think last night some quarrel had arisen between you. He looked so savage when you were dancing with Captain Monk. His eyes are handsome, but at times I have noticed a gleam in them that might safely be termed dangerous."

"Have you? I have not."

"No? How strange! But no doubt when with you---- For my own part, I confess I should be quite afraid of him,--of annoying him, I mean."