n't find anything in them," ventures he, at last, in a slightly
dejected tone; "and they're so horrid sticky."

"_Nothing in them?_ Nonsense! you don't know how to go about it.
Look. I'll show you. Open them with your first finger and thumb--so;
and now do you see them?" triumphantly producing a round brown article
on the tip of her finger.

"Where?" asks Luttrell, bending forward.

"There," says Molly, bending too. Their heads are very close together.
The discreet Jane has retired into her pantry. "It is the real thing.
Can't you see it?"

"Scarcely. It is very small, isn't it?"

"Well, it _is_ small," Miss Massereene confesses, with reluctance;
"it certainly is the smallest I ever saw. Still----"

By this time they are looking, not at the seed of the raisin, but into
each other's eyes, and again there is an eloquent pause.

"May I examine it a little closer?" Luttrell asks, as though athirst
for information, possessing himself quietly of the hand, raisin-stone,
flour, and all, and bringing it suspiciously near to his lips. "Does
it--would it--I mean does flour come off things easily?"

"I don't know," returns Molly, with an innocent gravity that puts him
to shame. "Off some things it washes readily enough; but--mind you, I
can't say for certain, as I have had no experience; but I don't
think----"

"Yes?" seeing her hesitate.

"Well, I don't think," emphasizing each word with a most solemn nod,
"it would come off your moustache in a hurry."

"I'll risk it, anyhow," says Luttrell, stooping suddenly to impress a
fervent kiss upon the little powdered fingers he is holding.

"Oh! how wrong, how extremely wrong of you!" exclaims Miss Massereene,
as successfully shocked as though the thought that he might be tempted
to such a deed has never occurred to her. Yet, true to her nature, she
makes no faintest pretense at withdrawing from him her hand until a
full minute has elapsed. Then, unable longer to restrain herself, she
bursts into a merry laugh,--a laugh all sweetest, clearest music.

"If you could only see how funny you look!" cries she. "You are fair
with a vengeance now. Ah! do go and see for yourself." Giving him a
gentle push toward an ancient glass that hangs disconsolately near the
clock, and thereby leaving another betraying mark upon the shoulder of
his coat.

Luttrell, having duly admired himself and given it as his opinion that
though flour on the arms may be effective, flour on the face is not,