LITMIR.BIZ

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his hand aside, turned the page herself and continued playing.

      “Sorry!” said he, blushing actually.

      “Don’t bother,” she said, continuing to play without observing him. When she had finished:

      “There!” she said, “now tell me how you felt while I was playing.”

      “Oh — a fool!”— he replied, covered with confusion.

      “I’m glad to hear it,” she said —“but I didn’t mean that. I meant how did the music make you feel?”

      “I don’t know — whether — it made me feel anything,” he replied deliberately, pondering over his answer, as usual.

      “I tell you,” she declared, “you’re either asleep or stupid. Did you really see nothing in the music? But what did you think about?”

      He laughed — and thought awhile — and laughed again.

      “Why!” he admitted, laughing, and trying to tell the exact truth, “I thought how pretty your hands are — and what they are like to touch — and I thought it was a new experience to feel somebody’s hair tickling my cheek.” When he had finished his deliberate account she gave his hand a little knock, and left him saying:

      “You are worse and worse.”

      She came across the room to the couch where I was sitting talking to Emily, and put her arm around my neck.

      “Isn’t it time to go home, Pat?” she asked.

      “Half-past eight — quite early,” said I.

      “But I believe — I think I ought to be home now,” she said. “Don’t go,” said he.

      “Why?” I asked.

      “Stay to supper,” urged Emily.

      “But I believe —” she hesitated.

      “She has another fish to fry,” I said.

      “I am not sure —” she hesitated again. Then she flashed into sudden wrath, exclaiming, “Don’t be so mean and nasty, Cyril!”

      “Were you going somewhere?” asked George humbly. “Why — no!” she said, blushing.

      “Then stay to supper — will you?” he begged. She laughed, and yielded. We went into the kitchen. Mr. Saxton was sitting reading. Trip, the big bull terrier, lay at his feet pretending to sleep; Mr Nickie Ben reposed calmly on the sofa; Mrs Saxton and Mollie were just going to bed. We bade them good night, and sat down. Annie, the servant, had gone home, so Emily prepared the supper.

      “Nobody can touch that piano like you,” said Mr Saxton to Lettie, beaming upon her with admiration and deference. He was proud of the stately, mumbling old thing, and used to say that it was full of music for those that liked to ask for it. Lettie laughed, and said that so few folks ever tried it, that her honour was not great.

      “What do you think of our George’s singing?” asked the father proudly, but with a deprecating laugh at the end.

      “I tell him, when he’s in love he’ll sing quite well,” she said.

      “When he’s in love!” echoed the father, laughing aloud, very pleased.

      “Yes,” she said, “when he finds out something he wants and can’t have.”

      George thought about it, and he laughed also.

      Emily, who was laying the table, said, “There is hardly any water in the pippin, George.”

      “Oh, dash!” he exclaimed, “I’ve taken my boots off.”

      “It’s not a very big job to put them on again,” said his sister. “Why couldn’t Annie fetch it — what’s she here for?” he said angrily.

      Emily looked at us, tossed her head, and turned her back on him.

      “I’ll go, I’ll go, after supper,” said the father in a comforting tone.

      “After supper!” laughed Emily.

      George got up and shuffled out. He had to go into the spinney near the house to a well, and being warm disliked turning out.

      We had just sat down to supper when Trip rushed barking to the door. “Be quiet,” ordered the father, thinking of those in bed, and he followed the dog.

      It was Leslie. He wanted Lettie to go home with him at once. This she refused to do, so he came indoors, and was persuaded to sit down at table. He swallowed a morsel of bread and cheese, and a cup of coffee, talking to Lettie of a garden party which was going to be arranged at Highclose for the following week.

      “What is it for then?” interrupted Mr Saxton.

      “For?” echoed Leslie.

      “Is it for the missionaries, or the unemployed, or something?” explained Mr Saxton.

      “It’s a garden-party, not a bazaar,” said Leslie.

      “Oh — a private affair. I thought it would be some church matter of your mother’s. She’s very big at the church, isn’t she?”

      “She is interested in the church — yes!” said Leslie, then proceeding to explain to Lettie that he was arranging a tennis tournament in which she was to take part. At this point he became aware that he was monopolising the conversation, and turned to George, just as the latter was taking a piece of cheese from his knife with his teeth, asking:

      “Do you play tennis, Mr Saxton? — I know Miss Saxton does not.”

      “No,” said George, working the piece of cheese into his cheek. “I never learned any ladies’ accomplishments.”

      Leslie turned to Emily, who had nervously been pushing two plates over a stain in the cloth, and who was very startled when she found herself addressed.

      “My mother would be so glad if you would come to the party, Miss Saxton.”

      “I cannot. I shall be at school. Thanks very much.”

      “Ah — it’s very good of you,” said the father, beaming. But George smiled contemptuously.

      When supper was over Leslie looked at Lettie to inform her that he was ready to go. She, however, refused to see his look, but talked brightly to Mr Saxton, who was delighted. George, flattered, joined in the talk with gusto. Then Leslie’s angry silence began to tell on us all. After a dull lapse, George lifted his head and said to his father:

      “Oh, I shouldn’t be surprised if that little red heifer calved tonight.”

      Lettie’s eyes flashed with a sparkle of amusement at this thrust.

      “No,” assented the father, “I thought so myself.”

      After a moment’s silence, George continued deliberately, “I felt her gristles —”

      “George!” said Emily sharply.

      “We will go,” said Leslie.

      George looked up sideways at Lettie and his black eyes were full of sardonic mischief.

      “Lend me a shawl, will you, Emily?” said Lettie. “I brought nothing, and I think the wind is cold.”

      Emily, however, regretted that she had no shawl, and so Lettie must needs wear a black coat over her summer dress. It fitted so absurdly that we all laughed, but Leslie was very angry that she should appear ludicrous before them. He showed her all the polite attentions possible, fastened the neck of her coat with his pearl scarf-pin, refusing the pin Emily discovered, after some search. Then we sallied forth.

      When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured dignity. She refused it and he began to remonstrate. “I consider you ought to have been home as you promised.”

      “Pardon me.” she replied,

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