she was blithely unimpressionable, if one were to judge by the calmness
with which she fended off the inevitable though tardy assault. She kept
him at arm's length; appearances demanded a discreetness, no matter how
she may secretly have felt toward the good-looking husband of her
sister. To say that she was enjoying herself would be putting it much
too tamely; she was revelling in the fun of the thing. It mattered
little to her that people--her own cousins in particular--were looking
upon her with cold and critical eyes; she knew, down in her heart, that
she could throw a bomb among them at any time by the mere utterance of a
single word. It mattered as little that Edith was beginning to chafe
miserably under the strain of waiting and deception; the novelty had
worn off for the wife of Roxbury; she was despairingly in love, and she
was pining for the day to come when she could laugh again with real
instead of simulated joyousness.

"Connie, dear," she would lament a dozen times a day, "it's growing
unbearable. Oh, how I wish the three weeks were ended. Then I could have
my Roxbury, and you could have my other Roxbury, and everybody wouldn't
be pitying me and cavilling at you because I'm unhappily married."

"Why do you say I could have your other Roxbury?" demanded her sister on
one occasion. "You forget that father expects me to marry the viscount.
I--"

"You are so tiresome, Connie. Don't worry me with your love affairs--I
don't want to hear them. There's Mr. Brock waiting for you in the
garden."

"I know it, my dear. He's been waiting for an hour. I think it is good
for him to wait," said the other, with airy confidence. "What does Roxy