“Don’t you think you are a little cross to-night, Miss Clovis?” the man asked, going over to where she sat. “It must be that, for you’re never jealous.”
“Of you?”
“Hardly,” he muttered; “but wasn’t it saucy of her to be sticking that (pointing to the decoration) in your very face?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that!” she replied. “A lot of letters and flowers will never bring him success!”
“Let us see.”
“Oh!” cried Kitty, “please don’t pun; you know it is the lowest order of wit.”
“I beg your pardon,” replied the young man; “I did not mean it as such.”
“Did you come to tell us about the race to-morrow?”
“Yes, I can tell you of it now I am here, though I really did not come for that. You know I am fond of you myself after a fashion, Cassandra!” and he gave her a bright, half-impudent look.
“He’s a handsome sort of a fellow, and I wish I could have loved him!” thought the woman.