“Awfully nice of you to send me these things,” she said languidly, but loud enough for the men around her to hear—she had men around her already: she had been discovered—“but I never eat sweets, you know. Here, you little mite in the blue sash, don’t you want this pretty box to put your doll’s clothes in?” And Maillard’s finest bonbonnière went to a yellow–haired brat of three. But this was the slightest and lightest of her caprices. She made him send for his dog–cart and his horses, all the way from New York, only that he might drive her over the ridiculous little mile–and–a–half of road that bounded the tiny peninsula. And she christened him “Muffets,” a nickname presumably suggested by “Morpeth”; and she called him “Muffets” in the hearing of all the hotel people. And did such conduct pass unchallenged? No. Pauline scolded, raged, raved. She wrote to Mama. Mama wrote back and reproved Flossy. But Mama could not leave Papa. His gout was worse. The Miss Redingtons must act. The Miss Redingtons merely wept, and nothing more. Pauline scolded; the flirtation went on; and the people at the big hotel enjoyed it immensely. And there was more to come. Four weeks had passed. Mr. Morpeth was hardly on speaking terms with the elder Miss Belton; and with the younger Miss Belton he was on terms which the hotel gossips characterized as “simply scandalous.” Brown glared at him when they met, and he glared at Brown. Brown was having a hard time. Miss Belton the elder was not pleasant of temper in those trying days. “And now,” said Miss Flossy to Mr. Morpeth, “it’s time you proposed to me, Muffets.” [Illustration] They were sitting on the hotel verandah, in the evening darkness. No one was near them, except an old lady in a Shaker chair. “There’s Mrs. Melby. She’s pretending to be asleep, but she isn’t. She’s just waiting for us. Now walk me up and down and ask me to marry you so that she can hear it. It’ll be all over the hotel inside of half an hour. Pauline will just _rage_.” With this pleasant prospect before him, Mr. Morpeth marched Miss Flossy Belton up and down the long verandah. He had passed Mrs. Melby three times before he was able to say, in a choking, husky, uncertain voice: “Flossy—I—I—I _love_ you!” Flossy’s voice was not choking nor uncertain. It rang out clear and silvery in a peal of laughter. “Why, of course you do, Muffets, and I wish you didn’t. That’s what makes you so stupid half the time.” “But—” said Mr. Morpeth, vaguely; “but I—“ “But you’re a silly boy,” returned Miss Flossy; and she added in a swift aside: “_You haven’t asked me to marry you!_” “W–W–W–Will you be my wife?” stammered Mr. Morpeth. “No!” said Miss Flossy, emphatically, “I will not. You are too utterly ridiculous. The idea of it! No, Muffets, you are charming in your present capacity; but you aren’t to be considered seriously.” They strolled on into the gloom at the end of the great verandah.