Guy, sauntering to the window, takes an elaborate survey of the dismal landscape outside; Lilian coughs gently, and begins to count industriously all the embroidered lilies in the initial that graces the corner of her handkerchief. One—two—three——
"They might as well have put in four," she says out loud, abstractedly.
"What?" turning from the window to watch the lovely mignonne face still bent in contemplation of the lilies.
"Nothing," mildly: "did I say anything?"
"Something about 'four,' I thought."
"Perhaps"—demurely—"I was thinking I had asked you four times to be good-natured, and you had not deigned to grant my request. When Lady Chetwoode speaks to you of Cyril and Cecilia, say you will be on their side. Do not vote against them. Promise."
He hesitates.
"Not when I ask you?" murmurs she, in her softest tones, going a little nearer to him, and uplifting her luminous blue eyes to his.
Still he hesitates.
Miss Chesney takes one step more in his direction, which is necessarily the last, unless she wishes to walk through him. Her eyes, now full of wistful entreaty, and suspiciously bright, are still fixed reproachfully upon his. With a light persuasive gesture she lays five white, slender fingers upon his arm, and whispers, in plaintive tones: