"Daisy, you're in love with Mr. Bush!"
The faithful Marriner hastily fluttered the pages of Schopenhauer's monumental work, endeavouring not to hear, and failing in the endeavour. Mrs. Verulam replied, after a short pause:
"I'm not sure."
"I am!"
"Hush! I shall know at Ascot."
"Is he coming to Ribwick——? What is the palace called?"
"Ribton Marches. Yes."
"How exciting! Oh, to think that you——"
She stopped and sighed, and, with woman's marvellous intuition, Mrs. Verulam knew that her mind was Huskinson-bound for the moment; that she saw once again the sands, the oranges, the crackers, and the razor-backs of far-off Florida; that she heard again the rattlesnakes of her sweet native land singing their serenades to the peaceful alligator; that she played once more upon the wide veranda with the errant Boswell, and watched the sunset behind the curly pines with the baleful Bream. Yes, Mrs. Verulam divined all this, and, clasping her friend's hand, was silent, thinking of the many mysteries by which we are all surrounded, whether our lot be cast in Margate or in Maryland. When she spoke again, she said in a very low voice: