They sat down to cards for a while after tea, during which conversation was rather forced, consisting mainly of extravagant compliments from the gentlemen, and tender, meaning glances which the girls did not resent. Mrs. Allen languidly joined them for a while, and excused herself saying:
"My poor head has been too heavily taxed of late," though how, save as a small distillery of helpless tears, we do not remember.
The regret of the young men at being deprived of her society was quite affecting in view of the fact that they had often wished her dead and out of the way.
"Why should we shut ourselves up within walls this lovely spring evening, this delicious earnest of the coming summer?" said Mr. Van Dam to Zell. "Come, put on your shawl and show me your garden by moonlight."
Zell exultingly complied, believing that now she would show him, not their poor little garden, but the paradise of requited love. A moment later her graceful form, bending like a willow toward him, vanished in the dusky light of the rising moon, down the garden path which led to the little arbor.
Gus, having the parlor to himself, went over to the sofa, seated himself by the side of Edith and sought to pass his arm around her waist. "You have no right," again said Edith with dignity, shrinking away.
"But will you not give the right? Behold me a suppliant at your feet," said Gus tenderly, but comfortably keeping his seat.
"Mr. Elliot," said Edith earnestly, "do you realize that you are asking a poor girl to marry you?"
"Your own beautiful self is beyond all gold," said Gus gushingly.
"You did not think so a month ago," retorted Edith bitterly.