“No, I—I will not; I’ll call.”
These questions had been scattered over Duncan Leslie’s walk, and the making up of his mind displayed in the last words was three-quarters of an hour after the first.
“I’m no better than a weak boy,” he said, as he strode along manfully now. “I make mountains of molehills. What can be more natural and neighbourly than for me to drop in, as I am going to do, for a chat with old Vine?”
There was still that peculiar feeling of consciousness, though, to trouble him, as he knocked, and was admitted by Liza, whose eyelids were nearly as red as the ribbon she had bought.
The next minute he was in the pleasant homely drawing-room, feeling a glow of love and pride, and ready to do battle with any de Ligny in France for the possession of the prize whose soft warm hand rested for a few moments in his.
“Ah, Miss Van Heldre,” he said, as he shook hands with her in turn, and his face lit up and a feeling of satisfaction thrilled him, for there was something in matter-of-fact Madelaine that gave him confidence.
Aunt Marguerite’s eyes twinkled with satisfaction, as she saw the cordial greeting, and built up a future of her own materials.
“Miss Marguerite,” said the young man ceremoniously, as he touched the extended hand, manipulated so that he should only grasp the tips; and, as he saluted, Leslie could not help thinking philosophically upon the different sensations following the touch of a hand.
A growing chill was coming over the visit, and Leslie was beginning to feel as awkward as a sturdy well-grown young tree might, if suddenly transplanted from a warm corner to a situation facing an iceberg, when the old naturalist handed a chair for his visitor.
“Glad to see you, Leslie,” he said; “sit down.”