Harrington, who was just putting out his hand to unfasten the carriage door, leaned forward, while Emily turned away. The young man felt, with a delicious thrill, the balmy breath of Muriel on his cheek, and her soft lips touch his ear, and the hot blood flew to his face before she had spoken a word.
“John,” she whispered, “you write your article to make some money. Hush, now! Let it go, and let me supply you—just for once now, pray do. Don’t be proud and foolish, but let me make you a present, for I have plenty, and come with us and have a day of recreation, for you are pale with work and study—now, John.”
“Now, John,” was said aloud with arch reproach, for Harrington had drawn back, flushed and laughing, with a gesture of negation.
“Not a bit of it,” he answered, gaily. “Did I ever?”
“No, you never did, bad young man that you are,” returned Muriel, aloud, with a face of playful reproach. “But see here, John”—she bent forward again to whisper, her face so sweetly pleading that it was hard to resist giving the besought audience.
“I won’t—that’s flat,” said Harrington, laughing and blushing, and putting out his hand to the hasp, for he felt that Muriel’s entreaty was getting dangerous.
“Very well,” she said. “That’s settled. But come up to tea this evening—come up early, if you can, and we’ll have a fencing lesson, and then, after tea, we’ll go to the Convention, trusting our luck to hear Wendell Phillips. How will that do?”
“Capital,” replied Harrington. “I’ll come.”
“And bring Wentworth with you.”