Everet Mapleson was beguiled into a call of a full hour—a delightful hour it was, too, to them all—and looked his dismay when finally, glancing at his watch, he found how the time had slipped away.
Addie Loring laughed merrily, when she saw the expression on his face, and caught his well-bred, “I had no idea it was so late.”
“Pray, Mr. Mapleson, do not look so disturbed,” she cried; “there is no fine for such an offense, and you are absolved even before confession, for this time.”
“But I have overstepped all bounds. I have been here a whole hour, and this my first call, too.”
“How dreadful!” laughed the little lady, roguishly. “Pray, tell me, what is the Southern rule for first calls?”
“Twenty minutes, or half an hour, at most.”
“I am glad I do not live at the South then. Why, one would hardly get through talking about the weather in that time.”
“Miss Loring, I protest; there has not been one word said about the weather this morning,” retorted the young man, thinking that she was very nearly as pretty as Gladys, as she stood before him in that graceful attitude, her head perched saucily on one side, a mocking smile on her red lips.
“True; but this wasn’t a formal call, you know, for which we both feel very much obliged to you, I am sure. People usually begin upon the weather when they make ceremonious visits, and that is about all there is to say. It is really refreshing to have had such a breezy hour as this. Pray come again, Mr. Mapleson, and don’t bring your watch next time; at least, don’t look at it if it is going to make you uncomfortable,” replied Miss Loring, with charming cordiality.
“Thank you; you are so indulgent and your invitation is so alluring that I am sure I shall not be able to resist it,” he answered, as he shook hands with her. Then he turned to Gladys, and added: “May I assume that you indorse all that your friend has said, Miss Huntress?”