“Come, come,” cried Mark, angrily. “All these scornful airs are not in keeping with what you yourself wrote about Maitland to Bella just two days ago.”
“And had Bella—did she show you my letters?”
“I don't believe she intended me to see the turned-down bit at the end; but I did see it, and I read a very smart sketch of Norman Maitland, but not done by an unfriendly hand.”
“It's not too late to revoke my opinion,” said she, passionately. “But this is all quite beside what I'm thinking of. Will you go down and see Mr. Maitland?”
“He's in bed and asleep an hour ago.”
“He is not. I can see the light on the gravel from his windows; and if he were asleep, he could be awakened, I suppose.”
“I have not the slightest pretext to intrude upon him, Alice.”
“What nonsense all this is! Who is he,—what is he, that he must be treated with all this deference?”
“It 's somewhat too late in the day to ask who and what the man is of whom every society in Europe contests the possession.”
“My dear Mark, be reasonable. What have we to do just now with all the courtly flatteries that have been extended to your distinguished friend, or the thousand and one princesses he might have married? What I want is that he should n't, first of all, make a great scandal; and secondly, shoot a very worthy old neighbor, whose worst sin is being very tiresome.”