As for Taffy, bad, bad boy that he is, never to give her a hint. Vengeance surely is in store for him. What right had he to forget? If there is one thing she detests, it is a person devoid of tact. If there is one thing she could adore, it would be the power to shake the wretched Taffy out of his shoes.
What is there left to her but to gain her room, plead bad headache, and spend the remainder of the evening in retirement? In this mood she gains the drawing-room door, and, hesitating before it, thinks better of the solitary-confinement idea; and, entering the room, seats herself in a cozy chair and prepares to meet her fate with admirable calmness.
Dinner is ready,—waiting,—and still no Archibald. Then there is a step in the hall, the door is thrown open, and he enters, as much hurried as it is possible for a well-bred young man to be in this nineteenth century.
Lady Chetwoode instantly says, with old-fashioned grace, the sweeter that it is somewhat obsolete,——
"Lilian, permit me to introduce to you your cousin, Archibald Chesney."
Whereupon Lilian bows coldly and refuses to meet her cousin's eyes, while kind Lady Chetwoode thinks it is a little stiff of the child, and most unlike her, not to shake hands with her own kin.
An awkward pause is almost inevitable, when Taffy says out loud, to no one in particular, but with much gusto:
"How odd it is they should never have seen each other until now!" after which he goes into silent agonies of merriment over his own wit, until brought to his senses by an annihilating glance from Lilian.
The dinner-hour is remarkable for nothing except Lilian's silence. This, being so utterly unexpected, is worthy of note. After dinner, when the men gain the drawing-room, Archibald, coming over, deliberately pushes aside Miss Chesney's velvet skirts, and seats himself on the low ottoman beside her with modest determination.
Miss Chesney, raising her eyes, regards him curiously.