"It is too ridiculous," says Mrs. Fleming's vexed voice, rising in her excitement, "and the offers and the admiration she has had too."
"She is a bad little cat," says Lady Flytton, shaking her ungodly, Madeira-warmed old head, "and she'll never come to any good, never! As to Paul Vasher, he won't marry her; he knows her too well for that!"
I move quickly away before I hear more, and marvel for the ninety-ninth time why I was ever invited to Flytton.
CHAPTER XIX.
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
my heart's core; ay, in my heart of hearts."
A tap at the door. "Come in," I say, pausing in my wrestle with my bonnet strings—which I am trying to settle in a bow that will not disgrace Lady Flytton's smart chariot—and enter Silvia. Apparently she is not going to church, for although we start in five minutes' time, she wears a white morning gown and slippers.
"Will you do something for me?" she asks, sitting down.
"Tell me what it is first," I say, cautiously.
"You know Mr. Vasher?"
"Yes!"
"Will you give him this note after church?"
I look at the held-out billet, and for a moment hesitate. I love to help lovers; but I like him, and I do not like her; shall I hurt him by taking it? He is strong enough to take care of himself. "Yes, I will give it him," I say, and put it in my pocket.
