"I don't feel like anything to-day," murmured the woman, throwing the work aside and yawning several times.
"Madge, I'm glad you have come. Where is that novel I saw you reading yesterday?"
"Rossmoyne, do you mean, mamma?"
"Yes, I glanced over it and think it is fascinating, and I stand sorely in need of just such a work to-day."
Marguerite knew from her mother's fretted looks that she had been somewhat annoyed, and judging that Evelyn had something to do in the matter, said nothing, but quietly withdrew to her own apartments.
Although Mrs. Verne and her daughter spent much of their time in Mrs. Arnold's elegant suite of rooms, they occupied an exclusive suite of apartments in an aristocratic square not far distant.
Marguerite had been amusing herself in reading over some extracts from her pocket diary when a pretty young page entered with an exquisite bouquet of rare exotics.
"How lovely," was the simple remark, as the girl took them in her hand and held them out to view, while the fragrance exhaled was almost overwhelming.
A tiny note, peeped out between a cluster of heliotrope and blush roses.
"It is provoking," thought the maiden, as she drew forth the perfumed billet-doux and read what might be considered a declaration of love.