“It’s not quite the same thing, you know, Maurice. I’m more important. But we’ll treat this beetle very well—you’ve just played a funeral march for it—and then, perhaps, its ghost will come and tell us all about beetles, and what beetles think about men, and if they know anything that we don’t.”
“Yes, treat it kindly,” said Maurice, smiling. “Much can always be done by kindness.”
Marjorie went out of the room laughing; but on the following morning, when she appeared at breakfast, she was very quiet and subdued. A note came from Miss Dean, regretting that—“owing to a slight indisposition”—she was unable to come to teach Marjorie that morning. Even the prospect of a day’s holiday did not seem to cheer her up. Maurice found her alone in the garden about an hour afterwards.
“What’s up, Marjorie?” he said. “Aren’t you well?”
“Oh, yes, I’m always well—I’ve got something to tell you though. I saw it last night.”
“Saw what?”
“The beetle.”
Maurice was a little startled. He too had had a curious dream in which the beetle had figured. “Look here, Marjorie,” he said; “I’ve nothing particular to do this morning, and I believe you’d be the better for a walk. We’ll go over to Weyford, and then go up to St. Margaret’s, if you don’t mind climbing the hill.”
“Oh, that would be lovely! That’s just the thing. We shan’t get back to lunch, you know.”
“That’s all right. We’ll lunch in Weyford. I’ll go in and talk to Mrs. Meyner about it, and you go and get ready.”