illiest
smile. "Those are harsh words from a lady's lips--not so becoming to
them as something gentler. You remind me, Miss Tressillian, of a young
panther I once had, beautiful to look at, but eminently dangerous to
approach, much less to caress. Everybody admired my panther, but no one
dared to choose it for a pet."

With this uncourteous allegory the Major turned away, leaving Violet to
make it out as best she might. It was good fun to watch the
Tressillian's face: I only, standing near, had caught what he said, for
he had spoken very low. First she looked haughty and annoyed, then a
little troubled and perplexed: she sat quiet a minute, playing
thoughtfully with her bracelets; then shook her head with a movement of
defiance, and began to sing a Venetian barcarole with more _elan_ and
spirit than ever.

"By Jove! Telfer," said I, as we sat in the smoking-room that night,
"your would-have-been mother-in-law has plenty of pluck. She'd have kept
you in good training, and made a better boy of you; it's quite a loss to
your morals that your father didn't marry her."

Telfer didn't look best pleased. He stretched himself full length on one
of the divans, and answered not.

"I shouldn't be surprised if, with all her beauty, she hangs on hand,"
said Walsham, "for she hasn't a rap, you know; her governor gamed it all
away, and she's certainly a bit of a flirt."

"I don't think so," said Telfer, shortly.

"Oh, by George! don't you? but I do," cried Fred. "Why, she takes a turn
at us all, from old De Tintiniac, with his padded figure and coulisses
compliments, to Marc, young and beautiful, as the novels say,--but we'll
spare his blushes--from Vane, there, with his long rent-roll, to poor
me, who she knows goes on tick for my weeds and gloves. She flirts with
us all, one after the other, except you, whom she don't dare to touch.
Tell me where you get your _noli me tangere_ armor, Telfer, and I'll
adopt it to-morrow, for the girls make such desperate love to me I know
some of them will propose before long."

Telfer smoked vigorously during Fred's peroration, and his brow
darkened. "I do not consider Miss Tressillian a flirt," he said, slowly.
"She's too careless in showing you her weak points to be trying to trap
you. What _I_ call a coquette is a woman who is all things to all men,
whose every languishing glance is a bait, and whose every thought is a
conquest."

"And pray how can you tell but what the Tressillian's na