“Why, how silly you are,” cried Maimie; “of course he likes me, but—”
“No, Maimie,” said Kate, with sad earnestness, “he loves you; you can see it in the way he looks at you; in his voice when he speaks and—oh, you shouldn't let him unless you mean to—to—go on. Send him right away!” There were tears in Kate's dark eyes.
“Why, Katie,” cried Maimie, looking at her curiously, “what difference does it make to you? And besides, how can I send him away? I just treat him as I do Mr. De Lacy.”
“De Lacy!” cried Kate, indignantly. “De Lacy can look after himself, but Ranald is different. He is so serious and—and so honest, and he means just what he says, and you are so nice to him, and you look at him in such a way!”
“Why, Kate, do you mean that I try to—” Maimie was righteously indignant.
“You perhaps don't know,” continued Kate, “but you can't help being fascinating to men; you know you are, and Ranald believes you so, and—and you ought to be quite straightforward with him!” Poor Kate could no longer command her voice.
“There, now,” said Maimie, caressing her friend, not unpleased with Kate's description of her; “I'm going to be good. I will just be horrid to both of them, and they'll go away! But, oh, dear, things are all wrong! Poor Ranald,” she said to herself, “I wonder if he will come to the picnic on Saturday?”
Kate looked at her friend a moment and wiped away her tears.
“Indeed I hope he will not,” she said, indignantly, “for I know you mean to just lead him on. I have a mind to tell him.”
“Tell him what?” said Maimie, smiling.