worthy of transportation for life at the very least."
"I cannot remember that either. I think you purposely misunderstand me."
"What a rude speech! Oh, if I had said that! But see how late it is," looking at the clock: "you are wasting all these precious minutes here that might be spent so much more – profitably with your cousin."
"You mean you are in a hurry to be rid of me," disdaining to notice her innuendo; "go, – don't let me detain you from Cyril and his cigar."
He turns away abruptly, and gives the bell a rather sharp pull. He is so openly offended that Lilian's heart smites her.
"Who is misunderstanding now?" she says, with a decided change of tone. "Shall you be long away, Sir Guy?"
"Not very," icily. "Truston, as you know, is but a short drive from this."
"True." Then with charmingly innocent concern, "Don't you like going out so late? – you seem a little cross."
"Do I?"
"Yes. But perhaps I mistake; I am always making mistakes," says Miss Lilian, humbly; "I am very unfortunate. And you know what Ouida says, that 'one is so often thought to be sullen when one is only sad.' Are you sad?"
"No," says Guy, goaded past endurance; "I am not. But I should like to know what I have done that you should make a point at all times of treating me with incivility."
"Are you speaking of me?" – with a fine show of surprise, and widely-opened eyes; "what can you mean? Why, I shouldn't dare be uncivil to my guardian. I should be afraid. I should positively die of fright," says Miss Chesney, feeling strongly inclined to laugh, and darting a little wicked gleam at him from her eyes as she speaks.
"Your manner" – bitterly – "fully bears out your words. Still I think – Why doesn't Granger bring round the carriage? Am I to give the same order half a dozen times?" – this to a petrified attendant who has answered the bell, and now vanishes, as though shot, to give it as his opinion down-stairs that Sir Guy is in "a h'orful wax!"
"Poor man, how you have frightened him!" says Lilian, softly. "I am sorry if I have vexed you." Holding out a small hand of amity, – "Shall we make friends before you go?"
"It would be mere waste of time," replies he, ignoring the hand; "and, besides, why should you force yourself to be on friendly terms with me?"
"You forget – " begins Lilian, somewhat haughtily, made very indignant by his refusal of her overture; but, Cyril and Lady Chetwoode entering at this moment simultaneously, the conversation dies.
"Now I am ready," Cyril says, cheerfully. "I took some of your cigars, Guy; they are rather better than mine; but the occasion is so felicitous I thought it demanded it. Do you mind?"
"You can have the box," replies Guy, curtly.
To have a suspected rival in full possession of the field, smoking one's choicest weeds, is not a thing calculated to soothe a ruffled breast.
"Eh, you're not ill, old fellow, are you?" says Cyril, in his laziest, most good-natured tones. "The whole box! Come, my dear Lilian, I pine to begin them."
Miss Chesney finishes her peach in a hurry and prepares to follow him.
"Lilian, you are like a baby with a sweet tooth," says Lady Chetwoode. "Take some of those peaches out on the balcony with you, child: you seem to enjoy them. And come to me to the drawing-room when you tire of Cyril."
So the last thing Guy sees as he leaves the room is Lilian and his brother armed with peaches and cigars on their way to the balcony; the last thing he hears is a clear, sweet, ringing laugh that echoes through the house and falls like molten lead upon his heart.
He bangs the hall-door with much unnecessary violence, steps into the carriage, and goes to meet his cousin in about the worst temper he has given way to for years.
Half-past ten has struck. The drawing-room is ablaze with light. Lady Chetwoode, contrary to custom, is wide awake, the gray sock lying almost completed upon her lap. Lilian has been singing, but is now sitting silent with her idle little hands before her, while Cyril reads aloud to them decent extracts from the celebrated divorce case, now drawing to its unpleasant close.
"They ought to be here now," says Lady Chetwoode, suddenly, alluding not so much to the plaintiff, or the defendant, or the co-respondents, as to her eldest son and Miss Beauchamp. "The time is up."
Almost as she says the words the sound of carriage-wheels strikes upon the ear, and a few minutes later the door is thrown wide open and Miss Beauchamp enters.
Lilian stares at her with a good deal of pardonable curiosity. Yes, in spite of all that Cyril said, she is very nearly handsome. She is tall, posée, large and somewhat full, with rather prominent eyes. Her mouth is a little thin, but well shaped; her nose is perfect; her figure faultless. She is quite twenty-six (in spite of artificial aid), a fact that Lilian perceives with secret gratification.
She walks slowly up the room, a small Maltese terrier clasped in her arms, and presents a cool cheek to Lady Chetwoode, as though she had parted from her but a few hours ago. All the worry and fatigue of travel have not told upon her: perhaps her maid and that mysterious closely-locked little morocco bag in the hall could tell upon her; but she looks as undisturbed in appearance and dress as though she had but just descended from her room, ready for a morning's walk.
"My dear Florence, I am glad to welcome you home," says Lady Chetwoode, affectionately, returning her chaste salute.
"Thank you, Aunt Anne," says Miss Beauchamp, in carefully modulated tones. "I, too, am glad to get home. It was quite delightful to find Guy waiting for me at the station!"
She smiles a pretty lady-like smile upon Sir Guy as she speaks, he having followed her into the room. "How d'ye do, Cyril?"
Cyril returns her greeting with due propriety, but expresses no hilarious joy at her return.
"This is Lilian Chesney whom I wrote to you about," Lady Chetwoode says, putting out one hand to Lilian. "Lilian, my dear, this is Florence."
The girls shake hands. Miss Beauchamp treats Lilian to a cold though perfectly polite stare, and then turns back to her aunt.
"It was a long journey, dear," sympathetically says "Aunt Anne."
"Very. I felt quite exhausted when I reached Truston, and so did Fanchette; did you not, ma bibiche, my treasure?" – this is to the little white stuffy ball of wool in her arms, which instantly opens two pink-lidded eyes, and puts out a crimson tongue, by way of answer. "If you don't mind, aunt, I think I should like to go to my room."
"Certainly, dear. And what shall I send you up?"
"A cup of tea, please, and – er – anything else there is. Elise will know what I fancy; I dined before I left. Good-night, Miss Chesney. Good-night, Guy; and thank you again very much for meeting me" – this very sweetly.
And then Lady Chetwoode accompanies her up-stairs, and the first wonderful interview is at an end.
"Well?" says Cyril.
"I think her quite handsome," says Lilian, enthusiastically, for Guy's special benefit, who is sitting at a little distance, glowering upon space. "Cyril, you are wanting in taste."
"Not
