'You look hot,' observed Margaret, with an exasperating smile.
'Not at all,' answered Lushington, feeling as if she had rubbed his
cheeks with red pepper. 'I suppose I am sunburnt.' Tiny beads of perspiration were gathering on his forehead, and he knew
by her smile that she saw them. It would have been delightful to walk
into the pond just then, yellow shoes and all.
He told himself that he was Edmund Lushington, the distinguished critic
and reviewer, before whom authors trembled and were afraid. It was
absurd that he should feel too hot because a mere girl had said
something smart and disagreeable. In fact, what she had said was little
short of an impertinence, in his opinion.
The fool who does not know that he looks a fool is happy. The fool who
is conscious of looking one undergoes real pain. But of all the
miserable victims of shyness, the one most to be pitied is the
sensitive, gifted man who is perfectly aware that he looks silly while
rightly conscious that he is not. Margaret Donne watched Lushington,
and knew that she was amply revenged. He would call her 'Miss Donne'
presently, and say something about the weather, as if they had never
met before. She paid no more attention to him for some time, and began
to read bits of the new book, here and there, where one page looked a
little less dull than the rest.
Meanwhile Lushington smoked thoughtfully, and the unwelcome blush
subsided. He glanced sideways at Margaret's face two or three times, as
if he were going to speak, but said nothing, and sent a small cloud
straight out before him, with a rather vicious blowing, as if he were
trying to make the smoke express his feelings. Margaret knew that trick
of his very well. Lushington was an aggressive smoker, and with every
puff he seemed to say: 'There! Take that! I told you so!' Margaret did not look up from her book, for she knew that he would
speak before long; and so it happened.
'Miss Donne,' he began, with unnecessary coldness, and then stopped
short.
'Yes?' Margaret answered, with mild interrogation.
'Oh!' ejaculated Mr. Lushington, as if surprised that she should reply
at all. 'I thought you were reading.' 'I was.' She let the new book shut itself, as she lifted her hand from
the open pages.
'I did not mean to interrupt you,' said the young man stiffly.
No answer occurred to Margaret at once, so she waited, gently drumming
on the closed book with her loosely gloved fingers.