"O Trix." She twined her arms still closer around her neck, and laid her cheek coaxingly alongside of Miss Stuart's. "There has been a horrid mistake. All the time in that boat on Killarney lake he was talking of—me!"
"Of—you!" The two words drop from Trixy's ashen lips.
"Of me, dear, and he thinks at this moment that you understood him so. Trixy—don't be angry with me—how could I help it—he proposed to me yesterday afternoon."
"Proposed to you yesterday afternoon!" Trix repeats the words like one who has been stunned by a blow, in a dazed sort of tone. "And you—refused him, Edith?"
"Accepted him, Trixy. I said yes to Sir Victor Catheron this morning in the grounds."
Then there was a pause. The ticking of the little Swiss clock, the joyous warble of the thrushes, the soft rustle of the trees sounding preternaturally loud. Beatrix Stuart sat white to the lips, with anger, mortification, amaze, disappointment. Then she covered her face with her hands, and burst into a vehement flood of tears.
"Trix! dear Trix!" Edith exclaimed, shocked and pained; "good Heaven, don't cry! Trix, dearest, I never knew you were in love with him."
"In love with him!" cried Trix, looking up, her eyes flashing through her tears, "the odious little wishy-washy, drawling coxcomb! No, I'm not in love with him—not likely—but what business had he to go talking like that, and hemming and hawing, and hinting, and—oh!" cried Trix, with a sort of vicious screech, "I should like to tear his eyes out!"
"I dare say you would—the desire is both natural and proper," answered Edith, smothering a second desire to laugh; "but, under the circumstances, not admissible. It was a stupid proceeding, no doubt, his speaking to you at all, but you see the poor fellow thinks you understood him, and meant it for the best."
"Thought I understood him!" retorted Miss Stuart, with a vengeful glare. "Oh, shouldn't I like to make him understand me! The way he went on that night, kissing my hand, and calling me Beatrix, and talking of speaking to pa, and meaning you all the time, is enough—enough to drive a person stark, staring mad. All Englishmen are fools—there!" exclaimed Miss Stuart, sparks of fire drying up her tears, "and Sir Victor Catheron's the biggest fool of the lot!"