“You are a most blundering lover, Captain,” she protested. “After I had plotted and planned to persuade her to show herself at Mr. Justice Smith’s last night--she didn’t want to, I assure you; she is such a spiteful little patriot--after all that, and my telling the general he must bring you; then you go and say or do something that sends her to me in a perfect passion, telling me one moment that she hates you, and the next that she will die of shame and misery. What did you do, Mr. Page? I am curious to know.” “What did I do? Why, Mistress Margaret, I--that is, I--I asked her how she did, and--” I was as tongue-tied as a schoolboy trying to say his first piece. “I think you must have,” she said, demurely. “Beatrix is just the person to fly into a rage because you asked her how she did.” I went dumb at this, but my desire was just as clamorous none the less. So, after we had looked the fire out of countenance for another minute or two, I essayed again. “Think of it, Mistress Margaret; it is desperate hard for me to be this near to her--and on the verge of going to I know not what fate--and not to have a chance to--to--” “Oh, you young lovers!” she smiled. “Here you are writhing and prickling to have me go, Mr. Richard Page--to be quit of me--and yet you are in a terrible fright lest I should go without promising to send Beatrix to you. Well, I’ll go; but I shan’t promise you she will come--even for a farewell sight of your handsome face and soldierly figure. Stay where you are for ten minutes by the clock. If she does not come by that time, you will have to think on your sins, whatever they may be, and go without your leave-taking.” I said I would wait, and thanked her, and felt, when she gave me her hand again for her own leave-taking, as if I were twice the hypocritical villain her husband had ever dared to be. When she was gone, and I had walked the floor of that pretty room a full half-hour, as it seemed to me, I fell to wondering how her mere mention of the time could make the tall clock in the corner go on wagging its pendulum in sly malice while its hands made hours of the minutes. We speak of killing time: I could have wrecked that lying time-piece more than once, and was, I think, standing before it and shaking my fist in its brazen face, when I first heard the hesitant opening of the door. No, it was not Mistress Margaret, coming back to tell me she had failed. It was Beatrix, and she had waited thus long so that she might curve her lip and train her eyes to flash and look me down, as I had seen her go and hide herself to do many a time when we were children together and had quarreled, as children will. “Well?” she said, much as she had said it the night before, when she had come into the glass rose-house to make me think she despised me. “I have come to bid you good-by,” I told her, picking out the most inane word that came to hand. And she would not let even that poor word stand.