he blue
flounced skirt lay round her on the floor. She stood above its billowy
folds, reminiscent of Venus rising from the waves--a gawky, angular
Venus in a short serge frock, reaching a little below her knees, black
stockings and a pair of prunella boots of a size suggesting she had yet
some inches to grow before reaching her full height.

"I hope you haven't hurt yourself," I said.

The next moment I didn't care whether she had or whether she hadn't.
She did not reply to my kindly meant enquiry. Instead, her hand swept
through the air in the form of an ample semi-circle. It terminated on
my ear. It was not a small hand; it was not a soft hand; it was not
that sort of hand. The sound of the contact rang through the room like a
pistol shot; I beard it with my other ear. I sprang at her, and catching
her before she had recovered her equilibrium, kissed her. I did not kiss
her because I wanted to. I kissed her because I could not box her ears
back in return, which I should have preferred doing. I kissed her,
hoping it would make her mad. It did. If a look could have killed me,
such would have been the tragic ending of this story. It did not kill
me; it did me good.

"You horrid boy!" she cried. "You horrid, horrid boy!"

There, I admit, she scored. I did not in the least object to her
thinking me horrid, but at nineteen one does object to being mistaken
for a boy.

"I am not a boy," I explained.

"Yes, you are," she retorted; "a beast of a boy!"

"If you do it again," I warned her--a sudden movement on her part
hinting to me the possibility--"I'll kiss you again! I mean it."

"Leave the room!" she commanded, pointing with her angular arm towards
the door.

I did not wish to remain. I was about to retire with as much dignity as
circumstances permitted.

"Boy!" she added.

At that I turned. "Now I won't go!" I replied. "See if I do."

We stood glaring at each other.

"What right have you in here?" she demanded.

"I came to see Mr. Deleglise," I answered. "I suppose you are Miss
Deleglise. It doesn't seem to me that you know how to treat a visitor."

"Who are you?" she asked.

"Mr. Horace Moncrieff," I replied. I was using at the period both my
names indiscriminately, but for this occasion Horace Moncrieff I judged
the more awe-inspiring.

She snorted. "I know. You're the house-maid. You sweep all the crumbs
under the mats."

Now this was a subject about which at the time I was feeling somewhat
sore