"My dear Dorothea—" Narcissus expostulated.
"But you are not going to evade me by any such tricks," she interrupted, sternly; "for that is what it comes to. I left you with the strictest orders to take care of yourself, and you ought to know that I shall answer nothing until you have been catechised. What have you been eating?"
"My dear Dorothea!"
Narcissus gazed helplessly at Mudge; but Mudge had been seized with a flurry of his own, and misinterpreted the look as well as the stern question.
"I—I reckon 'tis me, Miss," he confessed. "Being partial to onions, and taking that liberty in Mr. Endymion's absence, knowing his dislike of the effluvium—"
Such are the pitfalls of a guilty conscience on the one hand, and, on the other, of being unexpectedly clever.
An hour later, at dinner, Narcissus was informed that the drawings had been conveyed to M. Raoul, who, doubtless, would return them with hints for correction.
"But had he nothing to say at the time?"
"For my part," said Endymion, sipping his wine, "I addressed but one sentence to him; and Dorothea, I daresay, exchanged but half a dozen. Considering the shortness of the interview, and that our mission—at least, our ostensible mission"—Endymion glanced at Dorothea, with a smile at his own finesse—"was to carry him news of his release, you will admit—"
"Oh—ah!—to be sure; I had forgotten the release," muttered
Narcissus, and was resigned.