"Oh, don't lose your temper about it," says Molly.

Now, to have a person implore you at any time "not to lose your temper"
is simply abominable; but to be so implored when you have lost it is
about the most aggravating thing that can occur to any one. So Luttrell
finds it.

"I never lose my temper about trifles," he says, loftily.

"Well, I don't know what you call it, but when one puts on a frown, and
drags down the corners of one's mouth, and looks as if one was going to
devour some one, and makes one's self generally disagreeable, _I_
know what _I_ call it," says Molly, viciously.

"Would you like to return home?" asks Mr. Luttrell, with prompt
solicitude. "You are tired, I think."

"'Tired'? Not in the least, thank you. I should like to stay out here
for the next two hours, if----"

"Yes?"

"If you think you could find amusement for yourself--elsewhere!"

"I'll try," says Tedcastle, quietly taking up the oars and proceeding
to row with much appearance of haste toward the landing-place.

By the time they reach it, Miss Massereene's bad temper--not being at
any time a lengthened affair--has cooled considerably, though still a
very handsome allowance remains. As he steps ashore, with the evident
intention of not addressing her again, she feels it incumbent on her to
speak just a word or so, if only to convince him that his ill-humor is
the worst of the two.

"Are you going home?" asks she, with cold politeness.

"No,"--his eyebrows are raised, and he wears an expression half
nonchalant, wholly bored,--"I am going to Grantham."

Now, Grantham is nine miles distant. He must be very angry if he has
decided on going to Grantham. It will take him a long, long time to get
there, and a long, long time to get back; and in the meantime what is
to become of her?

"That is a long way, is it not?" she says, her manner a degree more
frigid, lest he mistake the meaning of her words.

"The longer the better," ungraciously.

"And on so hot a day!"

"There are worse things than heat." Getting himself into his coat in
such a violent fashion as would make his tailor shed bitter tears over
the cruel straining of that garment.

"You will be glad to get away from----" hesitates Molly, who has also
stepped ashore, speaking in a tone that would freeze a salamander.

"_Very_ glad." With much unnecessary emphasis.

"Go then," cries she, with sudden passion, throwing down the oar she
still holds with a decided bang, "an