Rangely, just behind her, was chatting with
Miss Frances in that half amorous badinage which some girls always
provoke, perhaps because they expect and keenly relish it.
"Oh, no," he observed, just as Mrs. Sampson was able to give an ear to
what was being said by the young people. "I am not fickle. I am
constancy itself, but when you are in New York and I am in Boston, you
really can't expect me to sigh loud enough to be heard all that
distance."
"I know you too well to suppose you will sigh at all," she returned,
with a coquettish air. "Especially with the consolations I am given to
understand that you have near at hand."
"What consolations?" he asked, visibly disconcerted.
"What has that confounded widow been telling her?" he wondered
inwardly. "Is it Mrs. Staggchase or Ethel Mott she's aiming at?"
Miss Merrivale tossed her head, as they paused in the doorway of the
tiny dining-room a moment to give Mr. Irons opportunity to convey his
ungainly length into its proper niche. Her shot had been purely a
random one and, unless one believes in telepathy, so was the question
by which she abruptly changed the subject.
"Do you know my cousin, Mrs. Frederick Staggchase?"
He held himself in hand wonderfully.
"Oh, yes," was his reply. "I know Mrs. Staggchase very well, but I
didn't know she was your cousin. All the good gifts of life seem to
fall to her lot.
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