At this avowal they all roar, and Guy declares he must take her out for a walk, lest she should commit herself any further.
* * * * * * *
The happy day at length is drawing to a close. Already it is evening, though still the dying light lingers, as if loath to go. Archibald Chesney, after a hurried private interview with Lady Chetwoode, has taken his departure, not to return again to Chetwoode until time has grown into years. In her own room Lilian, even in the midst of her new-born gladness, has wept bitterly for him, and sorrowed honestly over the remembrance of his grief and disappointment.
Of all the household Florence alone is still in ignorance of the wonderful event that has taken place since morning. Her aunt has declared her intention of being the one to impart the good news to her, for which all the others are devoutly thankful. She—Miss Beauchamp—has been out driving all the afternoon for the benefit of her dear complexion; has visited the schools, and there succeeded in irritating almost to the verge of murder the unhappy teacher and all the wretched little children; has had an interview with Mr. Boer, who showed himself on the occasion even more empressé than usual; has returned, and is now once more seated at her work in the drawing-room, covered with wools and glory.
Near her sits Lilian, absently winding a tiny ball of wool. Having finished her task, she hands it to Florence with a heavy sigh indicative of relief.
"Thanks. Will you do another?" asks Florence.
"No,—oh, no," hastily. Then, laughing, "You mustn't think me uncivil," she says, "but I am really not equal to winding up another, of these interminable balls. My head goes round as fast as the wool, if not faster."
"And are you going to sit there doing nothing?" asks Florence, glancing at her with ill-concealed disapproval, as the young lady proceeds to ensconce herself in the coziest depths of the coziest chair the room contains, as close to the fire as prudence will permit.
"I am almost sure of it," she answers, complacently, horrifying the proper Florence being one of her chief joys. "I am never really happy until I feel myself thoroughly idle. I detest being useful. I love doing 'nothing,' as you call it. I have always looked upon Dr. Watts's bee as a tiresome lunatic."
"Do you never think it necessary to try to—improve your mind?"