"Not the least!" exclaimed Daisy, eagerly. "Don't think it for a moment! Please not to make yourself unhappy about _me_."
"I _am_ worthy to be your friend," she continued saddened, and it may be a little vexed, by this remarkable exhibition of self-denial; "and _as_ a friend I feel I owe you some explanation, beyond a bare 'No, I won't.' It ought rather to be 'No, I _can't_;' because--because, to tell you the honest truth, I have promised somebody else!"
"I wish you joy with all my heart!" he exclaimed, gaily, and not the least like an unsuccessful suitor. "I hope you'll be as happy as the day is long! When is it to be? You'll send me an invitation to the wedding, won't you?"
Her heart was very sore. He did not even ask the name of his fortunate rival, and he could hardly have looked more pleased, she thought, if he had been going to marry her himself.
"I don't know about that," she answered, shaking her head sadly. "At any rate, I shall not see you again for a long time. Good-bye, Daisy," and she held out a cold hand that trembled very much.
"Good-bye," said he, pressing it cordially. "I shall never forget your kindness. Good-bye."
Blanche Douglas sank into a sofa, and sat there looking at the opposite wall, without moving hand or foot, till the long summer's day waned into darkness and her servant came with lights. She neither wept, nor moaned, nor muttered broken sentences, but remained perfectly motionless, like a statue, and in all those hours she asked herself but one question--"Do I love this man? and, if so, how can I ever bear to marry the other?"
"I wish you'd come, Daisy. You've no idea what it is, facing all those swells by oneself!"
"I have _not_ the cheek," was Daisy's reply. "They would chaff one so awfully, if they knew. No, Bill, I'll see you through anything but that."
"Then I must show the best front I can without a support," said the other ruefully. "Why can't she let me off these tea-fights? They're cruelly slow. I don't see the good of them."
"_She_ does," replied Daisy. "Not a woman in London knows what she is about better than Mrs. Lushington."
"How d'ye mean?" asked his less worldly-minded friend.
"Why, you see," explained Daisy, "one great advantage of living in this wicked town is, that you've no duty towards your neighbour. People don't care two straws what you do, or how you do it, so long as you keep your own line, without crossing theirs. They'll give you the best of everything, and ask for no return, if only you'll pretend to be glad to see them when you meet, and not forget them when you go away. That's the secret of morning visits, card-leaving, wedding-presents, and the whole of the sham. Now Mrs. Lushington goes everywhere, and never has a ball, nor a drum, nor even a large dinner-party of her own, but she says to her friends, 'I love you dearly, I can't exist without you. Come and see me every Wednesday, except the Derby Day, all the London season through, from five to seven P.M. I'll swear to be at home, and I'll give you a cup of tea!' So, for nine pen'orth of milk, and some hot water, she repays the hospitalities of a nation. She's pleased, the world is gratified, and nobody's bored but _you_. It's all humbug, that's the truth, and I'm very glad I'm so soon to be out of it!"