“Ah, here comes Miss Earle. Really, for a lady who has rejected a gentleman, she does not look as supremely happy as she might. I must go and have a talk with her.”
“Look here, Blanche,” cried the young man, angrily, “if you say a word to her about what we have been speaking of, I’ll—”
“What will you do?” said the young lady, sweetly.
Morris stood looking at her. He didn’t himself know what he would do; and Blanche, bowing to him, walked along the deck, and sat down in the steamer chair beside Miss Earle, who gave her a very scant recognition.
“Now, you needn’t be so cool and dignified,” said the lady. “George and I have been talking over the matter, and I told him he wasn’t to feel discouraged at a first refusal, if he is resolved to have a shop-girl for his wife.”
“What! Mr. Morris and you have been discussing me, have you?”
“Is there anything forbidden in that, Miss Earle? You must remember that George and I are very, very old friends, old and dear friends. Did you refuse him on my account? I know you like him.”
“Like him?” said Miss Earle, with a fierce light in her eyes, as she looked at her tormentor. “Yes, I like him, and I’ll tell you more than that;” she bent over and added in an intense whisper, “I love him, and if you say another word to me about him, or if you dare to discuss me with him, I shall go up to him where he stands now and accept him. I shall say to him, ‘George Morris, I love you.’ Now if you doubt I shall do that, just continue in your present style of conversation.”
Blanche leaned back in the steamer chair and turned a trifle pale. Then she laughed, that irritating little laugh of hers, and said, “Really I did not think it had gone so far as that. I’ll bid you good morning.”
The moment the chair was vacated, George Morris strolled up and sat down on it.