ned to make the best of a bad bargain, "there is no man you like
better than me."

"At present,--no," says the incorrigible Molly.

"You are the greatest flirt I ever met in my life," exclaims he, with
sudden anger.

"Who? I?"

"Yes,--you," vehemently.

A pause. They are much farther apart by this time, and are looking
anywhere but at each other. Molly has her lap full of daisies, and is
stringing them into a chain in rather an absent fashion; while
Luttrell, who is too angry to pretend indifference, is sitting with
gloom on his brow and a straw in his mouth, which latter he is biting
vindictively.

"I don't believe I quite understand you," says Molly at length.

"Do you not? I cannot remember saying anything very difficult of
comprehension."

"I must be growing stupid, then. You have accused me of flirting; and
how am I to understand that, I who never flirted? How should I? I would
not know how."

"You must allow me to differ with you; or, at all events, let me say
your imitation of it is highly successful."

"But," with anxious hesitation, "what is flirting?"

"Pshaw!" wrathfully, "have you been waiting for me to tell you? It is
trying to make a fool of a fellow, neither more nor less. You are
pretending to love me, when you know in your heart you don't care
_that_ for me." The "that" is both forcible and expressive, and
has reference to an indignant sound made by his thumb and his second
finger.

"I was not aware that I ever 'pretended to love' you," replies Molly,
in a tone that makes him wince.

"Well, let us say no more about it," cries he, springing to his feet,
as though unable longer to endure his enforced quietude. "If you don't
care for me, you don't, you know, and that is all about it. I dare say
I shall get over it; and if not, why, I shall not be the only man in
the world made miserable for a woman's amusement."

Molly has also risen, and, with her long daisy chain hanging from both
her hands, is looking a perfect picture of injured innocence; although
in truth she is honestly sorry for her cruel speech.

"I don't believe you know how unkind you are," she says, with a
suspicion of tears in her voice, whether feigned or real he hardly
dares conjecture. Feeling herself in the wrong, she seeks meanly to
free herself from the false position by placing him there in her stead.

"Do not let us speak about unkindness, or anything else," says the
young man, impatiently. "Of what use is it? It