But Stella declined the invitation, and so Chester Humphreys and Ladybird strolled back to Primrose Hall the same way they had come.
“Now,” said Ladybird, with an air that would have sat well upon Napoleon after the battle of Austerlitz, “what have you to say for yourself?”
“I have a great deal to say for myself,” said Humphreys, “and it is to be said now, and it is to be said to you, and it is strictly confidential.”
“That means I mustn’t tell, doesn’t it?” inquired Ladybird, nodding her wise head.
“It means just that; and it also means that I trust you implicitly: that I have faith in your honor, loyalty, and truth.”
“You may,” said Ladybird, looking at him with her eyes full of an integrity suggestive of the rock of Gibraltar—“you may depend on me. I am a Flint.”
“Very well, then,” said Chester. “Now, my little Flint, listen to me. You did a rash and daring thing when you wrote that letter to the governor; but never mind that part now: it may be that an inscrutable Fate used you for a straw to show which way the wind was blowing.”
“Are you going to marry Stella?” demanded Ladybird, who took little interest in proverbial philosophy.
“That’s the first thing I want to speak to you about,” said Humphreys; “you must overcome your propensity for asking that question. It is a habit, and unless broken, it may defeat your own ends.”
“Oh, talk so I can understand you,” said Ladybird, impatiently. “And, anyway, are you?”