As the name passed her lips the flush on Miss Silvester's face died
away, and a deadly paleness took its place. She made a movement to leave
the summer-house--checked herself abruptly--and laid one hand on the
back of a rustic seat at her side. A gentleman behind her, looking at
the hand, saw it clench itself so suddenly and so fiercely that
the glove on it split. The gentleman made a mental memorandum, and
registered Miss Silvester in his private books as "the devil's own
temper."

Meanwhile Mr. Delamayn, by a strange coincidence, took exactly the same
course which Miss Silvester had taken before him. He, too, attempted to
withdraw from the coming game.

"Thanks very much," he said. "Could you additionally honor me by
choosing somebody else? It's not in my line."

Fifty years ago such an answer as this, addressed to a lady, would have
been considered inexcusably impertinent. The social code of the present
time hailed it as something frankly amusing. The company laughed.
Blanche lost her temper.

"Can't we interest you in any thing but severe muscular exertion,
Mr. Delamayn?" she asked, sharply. "Must you always be pulling in a
boat-race, or flying over a high jump? If you had a mind, you would want
to relax it. You have got muscles instead. Why not relax _them_?"

The shafts of Miss Lundie's bitter wit glided off Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn
like water off a duck's back.

"Just as you please," he said, with stolid good-humor. "Don't be