you are cool," he says, slowly.
"I am not, indeed," replies innocent Molly. "How I wish I were 'cool,' on such a day as this! Are you?"
"No," shortly. "Perhaps that is the reason you recommended me a plunge; or is it for your amusement?"
"You are afraid," asserts Molly, with a little mischievous, scornful laugh, not to be endured for a moment.
"Afraid!" angrily. "Nonsense! I don't care about wetting my clothes, certainly, and I don't want to put out my cigar; but"—throwing away the choice Havana in question—"you shall have your lilies, of course, if you have set your heart on them."
Here, standing up, he strips off his coat with an air that means business.
"I don't want them now," says Molly, in a degree frightened, "at least not those. See, there are others close behind you. But I will pluck them myself, thank you: I hate giving trouble. No, don't put your hands near them. I won't have them if you do."
"Why?"
"Because you are cross, and I detest cross people."
"Because I didn't throw myself into the water head foremost to please you?" with impatient wrath. "They used to call that chivalry long ago. I call it folly. You should be reasonable."
"Oh, don't lose your temper about it," says Molly.
Now, to have a person implore you at any time "not to lose your temper" is simply abominable; but to be so implored when you have lost it is about the most aggravating thing that can occur to any one. So Luttrell finds it.
"I never lose my temper about trifles," he says, loftily.
"Well, I don't know what you call it, but when one puts on a frown, and drags down the corners of one's mouth, and looks as if one was going to devour some one, and makes one's self generally disagreeable, I know what I call it," says Molly, viciously.
"Would you like to return home?" asks Mr. Luttrell, with prompt solicitude. "You are tired, I think."
"'Tired'? Not in the least, thank you. I should like to stay out here for the next two hours, if——"
"Yes?"
"If you think you could find amusement for yourself—elsewhere!"
"I'll try," says Tedcastle, quietly taking up the oars and proceeding to row with much appearance of haste toward the landing-place.
By the time they reach it, Miss Massereene's bad temper—not being at any time a lengthened affair—has cooled considerably, though still a very handsome allowance remains. As he steps ashore, with the evident intention of not addressing her again, she feels it incumbent on her to speak just a word or so, if only to convince him that his ill-humor is the worst of the two.
"Are you going home?" asks she, with cold politeness.
"No,"—his eyebrows are raised, and he wears an expression half nonchalant, wholly bored—"I am going to Grantham."
Now, Grantham is nine miles distant. He must be very angry if he has decided on going to Grantham. It will take him a long, long time to get there, and a long, long time to get back; and in the meantime what is to become of her?
"That is a long way, is it not?" she says, her manner a degree more frigid, lest he mistake the meaning of her words.
"The longer the better," ungraciously.
"And on so hot a day!"
"There are worse things than heat." Getting himself into his coat in such a violent fashion as would make his tailor shed bitter tears over the cruel straining of that garment.
"You will be glad to get away from——" hesitates Molly, who has also stepped ashore, speaking in a tone that would freeze a salamander.
"Very glad." With much unnecessary emphasis.
"Go then," cries she, with sudden passion, throwing down the oar she still holds with a decided bang, "and I hope you will never come back. There!"
And—will you believe it?—even after this there is no deluge.
So she goes to the right, and he goes to the left, and when too late repent their haste. But pride is ever at hand to tread down tenderness, and obstinacy is always at the heels of pride; and out of this "trivial cause" see what a "pretty quarrel" has been sprung.
"The long and weary day" at length has "passed away." The dinner has come to an unsuccessful end, leaving both Luttrell and his divinity still at daggers drawn. There are no signs of relenting about Molly, no symptoms of weakness about Tedcastle: the war is civil but energetic.
They glower at each other through each course, and are positively devoted in their attentions to John and Letitia. Indeed, they seem bent on bestowing all their conversational outbreaks on these two worthies, to their unmitigated astonishment. As a rule, Mr. and Mrs. Massereene have been accustomed to occupy the background; to-night they are brought to the front with a vehemence that takes away their breath, and is, to say the least of it, embarrassing.
Letitia—dear soul—who, though the most charming of women, could hardly be thought to endanger the Thames, understands nothing; John, on the contrary, comprehends fully, and takes a low but exquisite delight in compelling the antagonists to be attentive to each other.
For instance:
"Luttrell, my dear fellow, what is the matter with you this evening? How remiss you are! Why don't you break some walnuts for Molly? I would but I don't wish Letitia to feel slighted."
"No, thank you, John,"—with a touch of asperity from Molly—"I don't care for walnuts."
"Oh, Molly Bawn! what a tarididdle! Only last night I quite shuddered at the amount of shells you left upon your plate. 'How can that wretched child play such pranks with her digestion?' thought I, and indeed felt thankful it had not occurred to you to swallow the shells also."
"Shall I break you some, Miss Massereene?" asks Luttrell, very coldly.
"No, thank you," ungraciously.
"Luttrell, did you see that apple-tree in the orchard? I never beheld such a show of fruit in my life. The branches will hardly bear the weight when it comes to perfection. It is very worthy of admiration. Molly will show it to you to-morrow: won't you, Molly?"
Luttrell, hastily: "I will go round there myself after breakfast and have a look at it."
John: "You will never find it by yourself. Molly will take you; eh, Molly?"
Molly, cruelly: "I fear I shall be busy all the morning; and in the afternoon I intend going with Letitia to spend the day with the Laytons."
Letitia, agreeably surprised: "Oh, will you, dear? That is very good of you. I thought this morning you said nothing would induce you to come with me. I shall be so glad to have you; they are so intensely dull and difficult."
Molly, still more cruelly: "Well, I have been thinking it over, and
