The Fighting Chance

"Stephen! Stephen!" she said under her breath, "it's because I've a few things to scold you about that I've asked you to Shotover."

"I suppose I know," he said.

"I should hope you do. I've a letter to-night from your mother."

"From my mother?"

"I want you to go over it--with me--if we can find a minute after dinner." She released his hand, turning partly around: "Kemp, dinner's been announced, so cut that dog story in two! Will you give me your arm Major Belwether? Howard!"--to her cousin, Mr. Quarrier, who turned from Miss Landis to listen--"will you please try to recollect whom you are to take in--and do it?" And, as she passed Siward, in a low voice, mischievous and slangy: "Sylvia Landis for yours--as she says she didn't have enough of you on the cliffs."

The others appeared to know how to pair according to some previous notice. Siward turned to Sylvia Landis with the pleasure of his good fortune so plainly visible in his face, that her own brightened in response.

"You see," she said gaily, "you cannot escape me. There is no use in looking wildly at Agatha Caithness"--he wasn't--"or pretending you're pleased," slipping her rounded, bare arm through the arm he offered. "You can't guess what I've done to-night--nobody can guess except Grace Ferrall and one other person. And if you try to look happy beside me, I may tell you--somewhere between sherry and cognac--Oh, yes; I've done two things: I have your dog for you!"

"Not Sagamore?" he said incredulously as he was seating her.

"Certainly Sagamore. I said to Mr. Quarrier, 'I want Sagamore,' and when he tried to give him to me, I made him take my cheque. Now you may draw another for me at your leisure, Mr. Siward. Tell me, are you pleased?"--for she was looking for the troubled hesitation in his face and she saw it dawning.

"Mr. Quarrier doesn't like me, you know--"

"But I do," she said coolly. "I told him how much pleasure it would give me. That is sufficient--is it not?--for everybody concerned."

"He knew that you meant to--"

"No, that concerns only you and me. Are you trying to spoil my pleasure in what I have done?"

"I can't take the dog, Miss Landis--"

"Oh," she said, vexed; "I had no idea you were vindictive--"

There was a silence; he bent forward a trifle, gravely scrutinising a "hand-painted" name card, though it might not have astonished him to learn that somebody's foot had held the brush. Somewhere in the vicinity Grace Ferrall had discovered a woman who supported dozens of relatives by painting that sort of thing for the summer residents at Vermillion Point down the coast. So being charitable she left an order, and being thrifty, insisted on using the cards, spite of her husband's gibes.