"The same. I found her raging like a volcano."
"What—smoking?" queried Silverdale.
"No, no, she is one of the old sort. She merely fumes," said Wee Winnie, laughing as if she had made a joke. "She was raving against the infidelity of men. Poor Guy! How his ears must have tingled. He has sent her a long explanation, but she laughs it to scorn. I persuaded her to let you see it—it is so quaint."
"Have you it with you?" asked Lillie eagerly. Her appetite for tales of real life was growing by what it fed upon.
"Yes—here is his letter, several quires long. But before you can understand it, you must know how the breach came about."
"Lord Silverdale, pass Miss Nimrod the chocolate creams. Or would you like some lemonade?"
"Lemonade by all means," replied Wee Winnie, taking up her favorite attitude astride the sofa. "With just a wee drappie of whiskey in it, if you please. I daresay I shall be as dry as a lime-kiln before I've finished the story and read you this letter."
Turple the magnificent duly attended to Miss Nimrod's wants. Whatever he felt, he made no sign. He was simply Turple the magnificent.
"One fine day," said Wee Winnie, "or rather, one day that began fine, a merry party made an excursion into the country. Sybil Hotspur and her fiancé, Guy Fledgely, (and of course the baronet) were of the party. After picknicking on the grass, the party broke up into twos till tea-time. The baronet was good enough to pair off with an unattached young lady, and so Sybil and Guy were free to wander away into a copse. The sun was very hot, and the young man had not spared the fizz. First he took off his coat, to be cooler, then with an afterthought he converted it into a pillow and went to sleep. Meantime Sybil, under the protection of her parasol, steadily perused one of Addiper's early works, chaster in style than in substance, and sneering in exquisitely chiselled epigrams at the weaknesses of his sex. Sybil stole an involuntary glance at Guy—sleeping so peacefully like a babe in the wood, with the squirrels peeping at him trustfully. She felt that Addiper was a jaundiced cynic—that her Guy at least would be faithful unto death. At that instant she saw a folded sheet of paper on the ground near Guy's shoulder. It might have slipped from the inner pocket of the coat on which his head was resting, but if it had she could not put it back without disturbing his slumbers. Besides, it might not belong to him at all. She picked up the paper, opened it, and turned pale as death. This is what she read.
"Manager of Daily Hurrygraph. Please insert enclosed series, in order named, on alternate days, commencing to-day week. Postal order enclosed."