“Let us go into the conservatory,” she said, in a whisper. “I have heard so much about Mrs. Howlett’s orchids, I should like to see them.”
Willard, seeing that she was tired and slightly bored by the incessant chatter of those about her, escorted her out through the broad door into the conservatory. As she passed from the ballroom the dark eyes of Count Bonetti flashed upon her, but she heeded them not, moving on into the floral bower in apparently serene unconsciousness of that person’s presence. Here Willard got her a chair.
“Will you have an ice?” he asked, as she seated herself beneath one of the lofty palms.
“Yes,” she answered, simply. “I can wait here alone if you will get it.”
[Picture: “The dark eyes of Count Bonetti flashed”]
Willard passed out, and soon returned with the ice; but as he came through the doorway Bonetti stopped him and whispered something in his ear.
“Certainly, Count, right away,” Willard answered. “Come along.”
Bonetti needed no second bidding, but followed Willard closely, and soon stood expectant before Marguerite.
“Miss Andrews,” said Willard, “may I have the pleasure of presenting Count Bonetti?”
The Count’s head nearly collided with his toes in the bow that he made.
“Mr. Willard,” returned Miss Andrews, coldly, ignoring the Count, “feeling as I do that Count Bonetti is merely a bogus Count with acquisitive instincts, brought here, like myself, for literary purposes of which I cannot approve, I must reply to your question that you may not have that pleasure.”
With which remark (concludes Stuart Harley) Miss Marguerite Andrews swept proudly from the room, ordered her carriage, and went home, thereby utterly ruining the second story of her life that I had undertaken to write. But I shall make one more effort.
“_And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humor_. _He that knows better how to tame a shrew_, _Now let him speak_; _’tis charity to show_.”
“WHAT would have happened if she had behaved differently, Stuart?” I asked, after I had read the pages he had so kindly placed at my disposal.
“Oh, nothing in particular to which she could reasonably object,” returned Harley. “The incidents of a truly realistic novel are rarely objectionable, except to people of a captious nature. I intended to have Bonetti dance attendance upon Miss Andrews for the balance of the season, that’s all, hoping thereby to present a good picture of life at Newport in July and part of August. About the middle of August I was going to transport the whole cast to Bar Harbor, for variety’s sake. That would have been another opportunity to get a good deal of the American summer atmosphere into the book. I wish I could afford the kind of summer I contemplated giving her.”