out the weather, as if they had never
met before. She paid no more attention to him for some time, and began
to read bits of the new book, here and there, where one page looked a
little less dull than the rest.

Meanwhile Lushington smoked thoughtfully, and the unwelcome blush
subsided. He glanced sideways at Margaret's face two or three times, as
if he were going to speak, but said nothing, and sent a small cloud
straight out before him, with a rather vicious blowing, as if he were
trying to make the smoke express his feelings. Margaret knew that trick
of his very well. Lushington was an aggressive smoker, and with every
puff he seemed to say: 'There! Take that! I told you so!'

Margaret did not look up from her book, for she knew that he would
speak before long; and so it happened.

'Miss Donne,' he began, with unnecessary coldness, and then stopped
short.

'Yes?' Margaret answered, with mild interrogation.

'Oh!' ejaculated Mr. Lushington, as if surprised that she should reply
at all. 'I thought you were reading.'

'I was.' She let the new book shut itself, as she lifted her hand from
the open pages.

'I did not mean to interrupt you,' said the young man stiffly.

No answer occurred to Margaret at once, so she waited, gently drumming
on the closed book with her loosely gloved fingers.

'I suppose you think I'm an awful idiot,' observed Mr. Lushington, with
unexpected and quite unnecessary energy.

'Dear me! This is so very sudden! Awful--idiot? Let me see.'

Her absurd gravity was even more exasperating than her smile.
Lushington threw away his cigarette angrily.

'You know what I mean,' he cried, getting red again. 'Don't be horrid!'

'Then don't be silly,' retorted Margaret.

'There! I knew you thought so!'

'Perhaps I do, sometimes,' the girl answered, more seriously. 'But I
don't mind it at all. If you care to know, I think you are often much
more human when you are--well--"silly," than when you are being clever.

'And I suppose you would like me better if I were always silly?'

Margaret shook her head and laughed softly, but said nothing. She was
thinking that it was good to be alive, and that it was the spring, and
that the life was stirring in her, as it stirred amongst the young
leaves overhead and in the shooting grasses and budding flowers, and in
the hearts of the nesting birds in the oaks and elms. Just then it
mattered very little to Margaret whether the man who was talking to her
ma