"For hours and hours, half a day, while you—lazy man—were sound asleep. See what spoil I have gathered:" pointing to the heavy roses at her breast.
"Lovely, indeed," says Guy, who is secretly of opinion that the wild-rose complexion she has snatched from the amorous wind is by far the loveliest spoil of the two.
"And is not this sweet?" she says, holding up to his face the "red, red rose," with a movement full of grace.
"Very," replies he, and stooping presses his lips lightly to her white hand.
"I meant the rose, not the hand," says she, with a laugh and a faint blush.
"Did you? I thought the hand very much the sweeter of the two. Is it for me?"
"No!" says Miss Chesney, with much emphasis; and, telling him he is quite too foolish to be listened to any longer, she opens the door of the breakfast-room, and they both enter it together, to find all the others assembled before them, and the post lying in the centre of the table. All, that is, that remains of it,—namely, one letter for Lilian and two or three for Guy.
These latter, being tinged with indigo, are of an uninteresting description and soon read. Miss Chesney's, on the contrary, is evidently full of information. It consists of two whole sheets closely covered by a scrawling handwriting that resembles nothing so much as the struggles of a dying fly.
When she has read it twice over carefully—and with considerable difficulty—she lays it down and looks anxiously at Lady Chetwoode.
"Auntie," she begins, with a bright blush and a rather confused air.