"Why, I don't know what you did say," responded Agatha, patiently. "You say such queer things, Lynn, that half the time I don't know what you're driving at. At all events, however, as I understand, you are quite determined not to accept Mr. Lighton."
"Quite."
"Then," said Agatha, dimpling bewitchingly and adjusting her rose wreath with an air of satisfaction, "then, Lynn, I must just go and tell him so, I suppose."
She found the Rejected sitting where she had left him, and gazing disconsolately into space. He brightened a little as she sat down beside him.
"You had no luck, I suppose?" he remarked, tentatively.
"Mr. Lighton," cooed Agatha, softly, "she is not worthy of you. She is my own cousin, but I can't help saying so."
Mr. Lighton turned a rich, ripe tan colour, the nearest approach to a flush of rage that his skin was capable of attaining.
"Made fun of me, I suppose?" he queried in tones of stifled fury. "Oh, you needn't try to smooth it over, Miss Ladilaw! I know that tongue of hers too well."
"Well," said Agatha, commiseratingly, "I must say, Mr. Lighton, that she might have been nicer. It's one thing to refuse a man and another to make jokes about it. Not that she said much, you know, but there was one speech about your house having only one drawback"—
"That," exclaimed Mr. Lighton in a burst of horrible enlightenment, "was Me!"