"What, my dear?" asks Miss Priscilla, anxiously.
"There was Monica lying in an æsthetic attitude,—very æsthetic,—with her chin in her hands, and her eyes on the horse's ears, and her thoughts I presume in heaven, or wherever young ladies keep them, and with her heels——"
"It isn't truth!—it isn't!" interrupts Monica, blushing furiously, and speaking with much indignation. "I don't believe a single word of it!"
"And with her heels——"
"Terence!"
"In mid-air. She was kicking them up and down with delight," says Terence, fairly bubbling over with joy at the recollection. "It was the most humiliating sight for a modest brother. I shall never forgive her for it. Besides, the strange young man was——"
"If you say another word," says Monica, white with wrath and tears in her eyes, "I shall never speak to you again, or help you out of any trouble."
This awful threat has the desired effect of reducing Mr. Beresford to subjection. He goes down before the foe, and truckles to her meanly.
"You needn't take it so much to heart," he says soothingly: "there wasn't much in it, after all; and your shoes are very pretty, and so are your feet."
The compliment works wonders; Monica quite brightens up again, but the two old ladies are hopelessly scandalized.