"However,"--regretfully,--"they were _something_: a proposal is always an excitement. But the present man is married; so that makes it impossible for this present year. There was positively nothing to which to look forward. So you may fancy with what rapture I hailed your coming." "You are very good," says Luttrell, in an uncertain tone, not being quite sure whether he is intensely amused or outrageously angry, or both. "Had you--any other lovers?" "Yes. There was the last doctor. He poisoned a poor man afterward by mistake, and had to go away." "After what?" "After I declined to assist him in the surgery," says Molly, demurely. "It was a dreadful thing,--the poisoning, I mean,--and caused a great deal of scandal. I don't believe it was anybody's fault, but I certainly did pity the man he killed. And--it might have been me, you know; think of that! He was very much attached to me; and so was the Lefroys' eldest son, and James Warder, and the organist, to say nothing of the baker's boy, who, I am convinced, would cut his throat to oblige me to-morrow morning, if I asked him." "Well, don't ask him," says Luttrell, imploringly. "He might do it on the door-step, and then think of the horrid mess! Promise me you won't even hint at it until after I am gone." "I promise," says Molly, laughing. Onward glides the boat; the oars rise and fall with a tuneful splash. Miss Massereene, throwing her hat with reckless extravagance into the bottom of the punt, bares her white arm to the elbow and essays to catch the grasses as she sweeps by them. "Look at those lilies," she says, eagerly; "how exquisite, in their broad green frames! Water-sprites! how they elude one!" as she makes a vigorous but unsuccessful grab at some on her right hand. "Very beautiful," says Luttrell, dreamily, with his eyes on Molly, not on the lilies. "I want some," says Molly, revengefully; "I always do want what don't want me, and _vice versa_. Oh! look at those beauties near you. Catch them." "I don't think I can; they are too far off." "Not if you stoop very much for them. I think if you were to bend over a good deal you might do it." "I might; I might do something else, too," says Luttrell, calmly, seeing it would be as easy for him to grasp the lilies in question as last night's moon: "I might fall in." "Oh, never mind that," responds Molly, with charming though premeditated unconcern, a little wicked desire to tease getting the better of her amiability. Luttrell, hardly sure whether she jests or is in sober earnest, opens his large eyes to their fullest, the better to judge, but, seeing no signs of merriment in his companion, gives way to his feelings a little. "Well, 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?"