"Zéphine—"
"Is nervous, too?" ask I, smiling disagreeably. "What a curious coincidence!"
"I do not know whether she is nervous or not!" he answers, quickly; "I never asked her, but it seems that Huntley never would let her go on a drag; he had seen some bad accident, and it had given him a fright—"
"And so you and she are going to stay at home?" say I, coldly, but breathing a little heavily, and whitening.
"Stay at home!" he echoes, impatiently, "of course not; why should we? The fact is" (beginning to speak quickly in clear and eager explanation) "that I heard them talking of this plan yesterday, and so I thought I would be on the safe side, and send over to Tempest for the pony-carriage, and it is here now, and—"
"And you are going to drive her in it?" I say, still speaking quietly, and smiling. "I see! nothing could be nicer!"
"I wish to Heaven that you would not take the words out of my mouth," he cries, losing his temper a little; while his brows contract into a slight and most unwonted frown. "What I wish to know is, will you drive her?"
"I!!"
"Yes, you; I know—" (speaking with a sort of hurried deprecation) "I know that you are not fond of her; she is not a woman that other women are apt to get on with; but it would not be for long! I tell you candidly" (with a look of sincere anxiety) "I do not half like trusting you to Parker!—I think you are as likely as not to come to grief."
"To come to grief!" repeat I, with a harsh, dry laugh; "ha! ha! perhaps I have done that already!"