He stood hanging his head like a culprit, and said, with well-feigned timidity, that he came, by desire of Miss Vizard, to inquire how she was getting on, and to hope the people were beginning to appreciate her.
“Oh! that alters the case; any messenger from Miss Vizard is welcome. Did she send me those flowers, too? They are beautiful.”
“No. I gathered them myself. I have always understood ladies loved flowers.”
“It is only by report you know that, eh? Let me add something to your information: a good deal depends on the giver; and you may fling these out of the window.” She tossed them to him.
The Master of Arts gave a humble, patient sigh, and threw the flowers out of the window, which was open. He then sunk into a chair and hid his face in his hands.
Miss Gale colored, and bit her lip. She did not think he would have done that, and it vexed her economical soul. She cast a piercing glance at him, then resumed her studies, and ignored his presence.
But his patience exhausted hers. He sat there twenty minutes, at least, in a state of collapse that bid fair to last forever.
So presently she looked up and affected to start. “What! are you there still?” said she.
“Yes,” said be; “you did not dismiss me; only my poor flowers.”
“Well,” said she, apologetically, “the truth is, I'm not strong enough to dismiss you by the same road.”