“Not `best,’ I think,” she said. “Not even better!”
“I don’t see,” he said, his perplexity only increased.
“Mr. Corliss would,” she retorted quickly. “Come on: we’ll go and sit with them.” And she compelled his obedience by preceding him with such a confident assumption that he would follow that he did.
The fugitive pair were not upon the porch, however; they were discovered in the shade of a tree behind the house, seated upon a rug, and occupied in a conversation which would not have disturbed a sick-room. The pursuers came upon them, boldly sat beside them; and Laura began to talk with unwonted fluency to Corliss, but within five minutes found herself alone with Richard Lindley upon the rug. Cora had promised to show Mr. Corliss an “old print” in the library—so Cora said.
Lindley gave the remaining lady a desolate and faintly reproachful look. He was kind, but he was a man; and Laura saw that this last abandonment was being attributed in part to her.
She reddened, and, being not an angel, observed with crispness: “Certainly. You’re quite right: it’s my fault!”
“What did you say?” he asked vacantly.
She looked at him rather fixedly; his own gaze had returned to the angle of the house beyond which the other couple had just disappeared. “I said,” she answered, slowly, “I thought it wouldn’t rain this, afternoon.”
His wistful eyes absently swept the serene sky which had been cloudless for several days. “No, I suppose not,” he murmured.
“Richard,” she said with a little sharpness, “will you please listen to me for a moment?”