Ermengarde colored all over her face.
"Do you really, really want me, Flora?" she asked timidly.
"Of course I do, sweet pet; now you will oblige me, won't you?"
"I'd certainly like to, Flora."
"That's a darling. Go back to the house, and lie down on your bed and, when Lilias calls you at the last moment, say you're tired, and you'd like to stay quiet. Of course you are tired, you know; you look it."
"I suppose I am a little bit," said Ermengarde. Her heart felt like lead. Her gayety had deserted her, but she was in the toils of a much older and cleverer girl than herself.
She stole softly back to the house, and when Lilias found her lying on her bed, she certainly told no untruth when she said that her head ached, for both head and heart ached, and she hated herself for deceiving her sweet little friend.
The picnic people departed, quietness settled down over the house, and Ermie, who had cried with vexation at the thought of losing that delightful drive and day of pleasure, had dropped into a dull kind of dose, when a knock came to her room door, and Miss St. Leger entered.
"Now, little martyr," she said, in a cheerful voice, "jump up, make yourself smart, put on your best toggery, forget your headache, and come downstairs with me. We are going to have some fun on our own account, now, sweet."
"O Flora, what are you going to do?"