“Frank,” she said, “never, never will I submit to be made ridiculous. By to-morrow this time, the story will be all over the London clubs. Drive back to Harrogate with you I will not, and either you get down, or I will.”
Frank never moved.
“George!”
“Yes, my lady.”
She stamped her little foot.
“How dare you call me that?” she said, in a furious underbreath. “Put me down!”
George never budged an inch. The trot-trot of the horses’ feet maddened her, and she sprang up.
“Fenella,” said Frank, winding his arm round her waist, “if you don’t sit tight, I’ll put you on my knee, and keep you there, and then I’ll kiss you.”
CHAPTER II.
BY JUSTIN H. McCARTHY, M. P.
KISMET.
But, ah, that Spring should vanish with the rose.