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 dogcart 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 mamma. Mamma wrote back and reproved Flossy. But mamma 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.” They were sitting on the hotel veranda, 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 veranda. 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 veranda. “That’s the first time,” he said, with a feeling of having only the ghost of a breath left in his lungs, “that I ever asked a woman to marry me.” “I should think so,” said Miss Flossy, “from the way you did it. And you were beautifully rejected, weren’t you? Now--look at Mrs. Melby, will you? She’s scudding off to spread the news.”