When we were outside, he offered Lettie his arm with an air of injured dignity. She refused it and he began to remonstrate. “I consider you ought to have been home as you promised.” “Pardon me,” she replied, “but I did not promise.” “But you knew I was coming,” said he. “Well—you found me,” she retorted. “Yes,” he assented. “I did find you; flirting with a common fellow,” he sneered. “Well,” she returned. “He did—it is true—call a heifer, a heifer.” “And I should think you liked it,” he said. “I didn’t mind,” she said, with galling negligence. “I thought your taste was more refined,” he replied sarcastically. “But I suppose you thought it romantic.” “Very! Ruddy, dark, and really thrilling eyes,” said she. “I hate to hear a girl talk rot,” said Leslie. He himself had crisp hair of the “ginger” class. “But I mean it,” she insisted, aggravating his anger. Leslie was angry. “I’m glad he amuses you!” “Of course, I’m not hard to please,” she said pointedly. He was stung to the quick. “Then there’s some comfort in knowing I don’t please you,” he said coldly. “Oh! but you do! You amuse me also,” she said. After that he would not speak, preferring, I suppose, _not_ to amuse her. Lettie took my arm, and with her disengaged hand held her skirts above the wet grass. When he had left us at the end of the riding in the wood, Lettie said: “What an infant he is!” “A bit of an ass,” I admitted. “But really!” she said, “he’s more agreeable on the whole than—than my Taurus.” “Your bull!” I repeated laughing. CHAPTER III A VENDOR OF VISIONS The Sunday following Lettie’s visit to the mill, Leslie came up in the morning, admirably dressed, and perfected by a grand air. I showed him into the dark drawing-room, and left him. Ordinarily he would have wandered to the stairs, and sat there calling to Lettie; to-day he was silent. I carried the news of his arrival to my sister, who was pinning on her brooch. “And how is the dear boy?” she asked. “I have not inquired,” said I. She laughed, and loitered about till it was time to set off for church before she came downstairs. Then she also assumed the grand air and bowed to him with a beautiful bow. He was somewhat taken aback and had nothing to say. She rustled across the room to the window, where the white geraniums grew magnificently. “I must adorn myself,” she said. It was Leslie’s custom to bring her flowers. As he had not done so this day, she was piqued. He hated the scent and chalky whiteness of the geraniums. So she smiled at him as she pinned them into the bosom of her dress, saying: “They are very fine, are they not?” He muttered that they were. Mother came downstairs, greeted him warmly, and asked him if he would take her to church. “If you will allow me,” said he. “You are modest to-day,” laughed mother. “To-day!” he repeated.