"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!"