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“Where’s Newhaven?” I asked.

“Oh, I don’t always want Lord Newhaven!” she exclaimed petulantly. “I sent him off for a walk–I’m going out in the Canadian canoe with Mr. Ives.”

“Oh, you are, are you?” said I, smiling. As I spoke, Jack Ives ran up to us.

“I say, Miss Queenborough,” he cried, “I’ve just got your message saying you’d let me take you on the lake.”

“Is it a great bore?” asked Trix, with a glance–a glance that meant mischief.

“I should like it awfully, of course,” said Jack; “but the fact is I’ve promised to take Mrs. Wentworth–before I got your message, you know.”

Trix drew herself up.

“Of course, if Mrs. Wentworth—-” she began.

“I’m very sorry,” said Jack.

Then Miss Queenborough, forgetting–as I hope–or choosing to disregard my presence, leaned forward and asked, in her most coaxing tones:

“Don’t you ever forget a promise, Mr. Ives?”

Jack looked at her. I suppose her dainty prettiness struck him afresh, for he wavered and hesitated.

“She’s gone upstairs,” pursued the tempter, “and we shall be safe away before she comes down again.”

Jack shuffled with one foot on the gravel.

“I tell you what,” he said; “I’ll ask her if she minds me taking you for a little while before I—-“

I believe he really thought that he had hit upon a compromise satisfactory to all parties. If so, he was speedily undeceived. Trix flushed red and answered angrily:

“Pray don’t trouble. I don’t want to go.”

“Perhaps afterward you might,” suggested the curate, but now rather timidly.

“I’m going out with Lord Newhaven,” said she. And she added, in an access of uncontrollable annoyance. “Go, please go. I–I don’t want you.”

Jack sheered off, with a look of puzzled shamefacedness. He disappeared into the house. Nothing passed between Miss Trix and myself. A moment later Newhaven came out.

“Why, Miss Queenborough,” said he, in apparent surprise, “Ives is going with Mrs. Wentworth in the canoe!”

In an instant I saw what she had done. In rash presumption she had told Newhaven that she was going with the curate–and now the curate had refused to take her–and Ives had met him in search of Mrs. Wentworth. What could she do? Well, she rose–or fell–to the occasion. In the coldest of voices she said:

“I thought you’d gone for your walk.”

“I was just starting,” he answered apologetically, “when I met Ives. But, as you weren’t going with him—-” He paused, an inquiring look in his eyes. He was evidently asking himself why she had not gone with the curate.

“I’d rather be left alone, if you don’t mind,” said she. And then, flushing red again, she added. “I changed my mind and refused to go with Mr. Ives. So he went off to get Mrs. Wentworth instead.”

I started. Newhaven looked at her for an instant, and then turned on his heel. She turned to me, quick as lightning, and with her face all aflame.

“If you tell, I’ll never speak to you again,” she whispered.

After this there was silence for some minutes.

“Well?” she said, without looking at me.

“I have no remark to offer, Miss Queenborough,” I returned.

“I suppose that was a lie, wasn’t it?” she asked defiantly.

“It’s not my business to say what it was,” was my discreet answer.

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“I was thinking,” said I, “which I would rather be–the man you will marry, or the man you would like—-“

“How dare you! It’s not true. Oh Mr. Wynne, indeed it’s not true!”

Whether it were true or not I did not know. But if it had been, Miss Trix Queenborough might have been expected to act very much in the way in which she proceeded to act: that is to say, to be extravagantly attentive to Lord Newhaven when Jack Ives was present, and markedly neglectful of him in the curate’s absence. It also fitted in very well with the theory which I had ventured to hint that her bearing toward Mrs. Wentworth was distinguished by a stately civility, and her remarks about that lady by a superfluity of laudation; for if these be not two distinguishing marks of rivalry in the well-bred, I must go back to my favorite books and learn from them–more folly. And if Trix’s manners were all that they should be, praise no less high must be accorded to Mrs. Wentworth’s; she attained an altitude of admirable unconsciousness and conducted her flirtation (the poverty of language forces me to the word, but it is over-flippant) with the curate in a staid, quasi-maternal way. She called him a delightful boy, and said that she was intensely interested in all his aims and hopes.