“If you don’t, I’ll never give you another sitting,” returned Muriel. “So take notice.”
All sorts of studies and arts were pursued at the house in Temple street. Muriel, amidst her botany, drawing, moulding, music, Latin, French, German, Italian, miscellaneous reading, and her vigorous calisthenics, had for a year past interpolated the art of fencing, which Harrington had taught her, and which was at present her grand passion. Emily, who had been absent at Chicago for the last ten months, had previously learned from Wentworth and Muriel how to mould in clay, and upon her return, urged on chiefly by him, had resumed this crowning accomplishment of hers, and began to develop in it unusual talent. The bust referred to was one of Muriel, which she had been working on. Lately, the check she had received in her love for Wentworth, had sadly damped the ardor of her passion for sculpture, and the bust had been neglected.
“Don’t let your belief in Wentworth’s flirtations interfere with your pursuit of the fine arts, mignonne,” continued Muriel, gaily.
“Dear me, no!” languidly returned Emily. “His flirtations are nothing to me.”
“Certainly not,” said Muriel, sportively patting her on the shoulder. “And as you owe the bad boy a debt of gratitude for showing you how to mould, be civil to him, I pray.”
“Civil? And am I not civil to him?” returned Emily, smiling with lazy serenity.
“Ah, wicked one, no,” said Muriel, silverly murmuring the words into Emily’s ear, as she stood behind her with her arms around her waist, and her face looking jestingly over her shoulder. “Not a bit civil. Didn’t I see that freak of the violets this morning! I know that hurt Richard’s feelings. Not because you did not give them to him, but on account of your manner, which was indescribably disdainful. I verily believe Fernando had something to do with that transaction. What was it he said to you at the table when I saw you color?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Emily, blushing. “It was something he meant for a joke, though I thought it rather impudent. To tell the truth, Muriel, I did intend to share the violets between Harrington and Wentworth, when Fernando observed to me that Wentworth would be delighted to receive a true-love posy from me, or something of that sort. Now that provoked me, and I knew Wentworth had put him up to say it, for I saw them whispering and laughing together just before, and I”—
“My dear Emily,” said Muriel, in a beseeching tone, coming around in front of the speaker, “how can you be so unreasonable as to jump to such a conclusion?”
“Oh! I know he had something to do with it,” returned Emily, obstinately; “so I just punished him by giving all the flowers to Harrington. I know it piqued him, and I’m glad of it.”