"Don't be so absurd, St. John!" cries Miss Blessington, pettishly. "Miss Craven would far rather be left in peace."
"Would you?" (appealing to her.)
"No—o; that is—I mean—I think I should like the walk, if I may. May I, Lady Gerard? do you mind?" (turning sweet red cheeks and quick eyes towards her hostess.)
"I, my dear! Why should I mind?" responds Miladi, leaning back and fanning herself with a large fan (I believe that fat women often suffer a foretaste of the torments of the damned in the matter of heat)—"so as you don't ask me to go with you (with a fat smile). And, St. John, be sure that you are back in time for dinner, there's a good boy! You know what a fuss Sir Thomas is always in on Sunday evening?"
"I know that Sir Thomas is digging his grave with his teeth as fast as he can," answers St. John disrespectfully.
"Shall not we be rather late for church if we have four miles to go?" asks Esther, as she steps out briskly beside her companion, while heart and conscience keep up a quarrelsome dialogue within her.
"It is not four miles; it is only three."
"You told Miss Blessington four?"
"So I did; but I drew for the extra mile upon the rich stores of my imagination."
"Why did you?" she asks, turning a wondering rosy face set in the frame of a minute white bonnet towards him.