"Anna," said Professor Hardage, laying his book across his knee as they sat that afternoon in the shady side porch, "I saw Marguerite this morning and she sent her compliments. They were very pretty compliments. I sometimes wonder where Marguerite came from—out of what lands she has wandered."
"Well, now that you have stopped reading," said Miss Anna, laying down her work and smoothing her brow (she never spoke to him until he did stop—perfect woman), "that Is what I have been waiting to talk to you about: do you wish to go with Harriet to Marguerite's ball?"
"I most certainly do not wish to go with Harriet to Marguerite's ball," he said, laughing, "I am going with you."
"Well, you most certainly are not going with me: I am going with
Harriet."
"Anna!"
"If I do not, who will? Now what I want you to do is to pay Harriet some attention after I arrive with her. I shall take her into supper, because if you took her in, she would never get any. But suppose that after supper you strolled carelessly up to us—you know how men do—and asked her to take a turn with you."
"What kind of a turn in Heaven's name?"
"Well, suppose you took her out into the yard—to one of those little rustic seats of Marguerite's—and sat there with her for half an hour—in the darkest place you could possibly find. And I want you to try to hold her hand."
"Why, Anna, what on earth—"
"Now don't you suppose Harriet would let you do it," she said indignantly. "But what I want her to have is the pleasure of refusing: it would be such a triumph. It would make her happy for days: it might lengthen her life a little."