“I have no doubt, my dear Monsieur Bagasse,” was the rejoinder after a pause, “that you would do as you say if you were the lady in question. But you’re not, you know, which makes the difference. However, I won’t discuss the point with you. Harrington is not quite so great a fool, I hope, as to expect any such good fortune. As for Wentworth, if you could have seen his face this morning when Emily—that is Miss Ames—gave Harrington a bunch of violets, you would have thought that his hopes, like his prospects, were rather down.” “Eh, what was zat?” inquired the old Frenchman, curiously. “Why you see,” replied Witherlee, with a spirting chuckle at the remembrance, “after the walk we were in the parlor, and Miss Ames went into the conservatory and came back with a little bunch of violets. She was at a table in the further end of the room, dividing the violets into two nosegays, and, just for a joke, I went over to her and whispered that Wentworth would be delighted to receive a true-love posy from her. I don’t know what made her color, but she did, and instantly tied up all the flowers in one nosegay, with a piqued air, and went over to the two fellows. You should have seen Wentworth’s mortified air when she sailed past him, and gave them to Harrington. He walked across the room, trying to look indifferent, but it was no go. Miss Eastman went out and came back with another bunch of violets which she gave him with her most gracious manner, but I guess she couldn’t console him for that rebuff. He made his adieux to Miss Ames stiffly enough, though he was extra cordial to Miss Eastman, at which Miss Ames looked colder than ever. Altogether, for a little matter, it played the deuce with Wentworth everyway.” “Pardon me, Miss’r Witterly—ex-cuse me, sir, please,” interposed Monsieur Bagasse, with immense civility of manner, and deprecating grimaces: “Zat was not well—_sacrebleu_, no. You make zat mischeef—ex-cuse me—you vex zat ladee and you wound Miss’r Wentwort’ wis you littel gay talk. Ah, you was not right—no indeed. You make maybe littel miff wis zose young peeples—it grow, grow, grow evair so big maybe, and zey nevair, nevair, come back togezzer. You duty sall be to make ze amende honorable—ex-plain—yes indeed, Miss’r Witterly. You tell Miss’r Wentwort’ what you say—zen he know, zen it is again right.” “Not at all,” replied the mischief-maker. “I don’t think so. I only made a playful remark. If Miss Ames chose to act as she did, that is not my affair. I said all I could to console Wentworth. I told him I was truly sorry that Miss Ames had treated him so rudely—very sorry indeed.” “_Mille tonnerre!_” exclaimed the Frenchman, grinning and grimacing desperately: “you say zat to Miss’r Wentwort’!” “Of course I said it,” coolly replied Witherlee. “What less could I say? It didn’t console him much, though. He tried to look indifferent, thanked me coolly enough, and remarked that it was of no consequence.”