'You look hot,' observed Margaret, with an exasperating smile.

'Not at all,' answered Lushington, feeling as if she had rubbed his

cheeks with red pepper. 'I suppose I am sunburnt.' Tiny beads of perspiration were gathering on his forehead, and he knew

by her smile that she saw them. It would have been delightful to walk

into the pond just then, yellow shoes and all.

He told himself that he was Edmund Lushington, the distinguished critic

and reviewer, before whom authors trembled and were afraid. It was

absurd that he should feel too hot because a mere girl had said

something smart and disagreeable. In fact, what she had said was little

short of an impertinence, in his opinion.

The fool who does not know that he looks a fool is happy. The fool who

is conscious of looking one undergoes real pain. But of all the

miserable victims of shyness, the one most to be pitied is the

sensitive, gifted man who is perfectly aware that he looks silly while

rightly conscious that he is not. Margaret Donne watched Lushington,

and knew that she was amply revenged. He would call her 'Miss Donne'

presently, and say something about the weather, as if they had never

met before. She paid no more attention to him for some time, and began

to read bits of the new book, here and there, where one page looked a

little less dull than the rest.

Meanwhile Lushington smoked thoughtfully, and the unwelcome blush

subsided. He glanced sideways at Margaret's face two or three times, as

if he were going to speak, but said nothing, and sent a small cloud

straight out before him, with a rather vicious blowing, as if he were

trying to make the smoke express his feelings. Margaret knew that trick

of his very well. Lushington was an aggressive smoker, and with every

puff he seemed to say: 'There! Take that! I told you so!' Margaret did not look up from her book, for she knew that he would

speak before long; and so it happened.

'Miss Donne,' he began, with unnecessary coldness, and then stopped

short.

'Yes?' Margaret answered, with mild interrogation.

'Oh!' ejaculated Mr. Lushington, as if surprised that she should reply

at all. 'I thought you were reading.' 'I was.' She let the new book shut itself, as she lifted her hand from

the open pages.

'I did not mean to interrupt you,' said the young man stiffly.

No answer occurred to Margaret at once, so she waited, gently drumming

on the closed book with her loosely gloved fingers.




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