perfect diamond-cut-diamond life between them, and he was afraid to relinquish his old manner all at once, but every cutting thing he said smote him to the quick.
Then, on lightest tip-toe, he crept to the end of the room, and drawing from its concealment a beautiful bouquet, stole back, and deftly placed it on Lilian’s lap.
“I’m quite ready! Is Mrs. Vernon come?” exclaimed Lilian, starting.
“Somebody’s been asleep,” observed Scott.
“Nonsense! only thinking with my eyes shut,” replied Lilian, indignantly.
“I’m sure you’ve had a very fatiguing day, riding up and down those downs—I don’t wonder at your being tired.”
Scott said this as tenderly as he dared.
“Don’t be absurd, Frank; you know I hate anybody to say I’m tired. What a lovely bouquet! Why, Frank—”
“The gift of Somnus.”
“You are a dear kind boy! But I can’t take it to the ball.”
“Oh, Lilian!”
“At any other time I should have been only too pleased—but—”
“Fiddlesticks!”
“I’m serious, Frank. Twice this very day I have been congratulated upon being engaged to you.”
“That don’t annoy me.”
“Nor me either. People always will talk nonsense. My only objection is that I do believe you really are getting quite stupid about me.”
Scott had never dreamt of a direct attack. The masked battery which he had so cautiously erected was destroyed.
“Now, Frank, I warn you, once for all, not to fall in love with me.”
“Well really, Lilian,” stammered Scott, intending to disclaim the charge.
“Oh! it’s no use your denying it—you used to be always chaffing me, and now you’re grown so dreadfully polite—that’s a fatal sign.”
“Come now, Lilian,” said Scott, suddenly changing his tactics. “Why am I to be specially singled out?”
“Because, Frank, as I treat you like an old playmate and a cousin, the world may think that my conduct arises from a deeper feeling. The world may think what it likes in this respect, but if you happen to mistake my conduct, and thereupon make me an offer—which, by the way, I should refuse—you will stand aggrieved before the world, and I shall be accused, for the second time, of trifling with a man’s affections.”
“Oh, Lilian!” cried Scott, with fervour, “recall those words—give me hope—refuse me at some future time, but not now.”
“From this evening,” continued Lilian, “I shall change my conduct towards you—you must be no longer Cousin Frank.”
“No, no, Lilian, don’t do that, let us be on the old terms. There, I’ll swear if I ever chanced to make you an offer—not a soul shall know it. You’ll take my word for that, Lilian, won’t you?”
“It’s all very well, Frank, but I won’t have you so much as think of falling in love with me. I’m wretchedly fickle, I know I am; I haven’t one atom of steady feeling.”
“Who says this?”
“Oh, everybody, Frank.”
“Not I, for one.”
“I’m a flirt and a jilt; that’s what I was told,” exclaimed Lilian, bitterly.
“By whom?”
“Never mind!—it was by one who knew me very well.”
“But I would not have stood it, Lilian,” exclaimed Scott, indignantly.
“What could I say, Frank? I knew it was true!” the tears stood in her eyes.
“It was too bad, Lilian, whoever the person was.”
“It was very hard to bear,—I shall never forget it to my dying day—to be told it, too, as I was told it.”
“Some friend of Mr. Newton’s, I suppose?”
“It was a friend of Mr. Newton’s,” replied Lilian guardedly, “but a friend of mine also.” She burst into tears. “I only wish dear Fred were at home again; he understands me, and puts me right, and forgives me when I’m wrong. I tell you, Frank, I often thank God he received that wound at Delhi which is to send him home to us safe from that horrid India. Everybody looks upon me as a flirt, but he won’t.”
Then Frank Scott saw the path which might lead to victory.
“I tell you, Lilian, I’ve stuck up for you, and I’ve had a right to speak, for I’ve known you so long; and though I’m not acquainted with the exact why and wherefore of the engagement with Mr. Newton being broken off—I’ve always said it, yes, and frequently too—that I knew you were not to blame. Why wasn’t he to bear something?—why in common justice was the whole weight to fall upon you?”
“It was very good of you, Frank, but you never can convince the world. I know well enough,” she continued with bitterness, “that men talk to me for amusement, and dance with me because I dance well, but they only think of me as a flirt to while away the evening. Mais, que voulez-vous? I accept that condition; I must have excitement—it’s half my life—and it’s the only sort of life I’m fit for. I learnt that long ago! But it’s very hateful to think about.”
“You don’t do yourself justice, Lilian. We’ll forget all that question of my being in love. I say this honestly, that I believe, with all my soul, that you are good and true; and I’m certain there are many others of your friends who think so too, from what they know of your character.”
“Good Cousin Frank!” and a smile lighted Lilian’s countenance.
“That’s right! let me be Cousin Frank again. And mind you, Lilian, I’ll make it my business to fight out that absurd idea you’ve formed of your character. I declare I’m half provoked with you, and as for that unknown person, who on earth cares for such an opinion? Why, you are little more than a child now, Lilian—”
“Perhaps just in the eyes of the law,” inter-
