Camelia did not think of Mary as an obstacle to be callously pushed aside; but as an insignificance rather, quite as well satisfied with the barrel-organ equivalent she would offer, as with the orchestra that Camelia intended to keep for herself, since she had the supreme right of appreciation.

Indeed she hardly thought of Mary at all, as she acted surprise on the threshold.

"Were you going with them? They are gone, dear!"

Mary turned from the mirror, her habit skirt falling from her arm; on her face a dismal astonishment, that Camelia, absorbed in the mental completion of her arrangement, hardly noticed.

"Sir Arthur, Gwendolen, the others--you were going out with them." She scarcely knew why she hedged her position with this pretence of ignorance. But Mary's face brightened happily.

"Oh no, Mr. Perior is going with me. You haven't seen him, then. He came for me."

Camelia had the barrel-organ all in readiness, and prepared to roll it forward without delay.

"Oh! did he? Well, Mary, I have another plan for you this afternoon, you will like it just as well, I know. I promised Mrs. Grier to make that charitable round of visits to her poor people with her this afternoon. We were to go to the almshouses, and I have a basket of sweets for the children in Copley, and now I must give up going because of this dreadful headache, and knowing that nothing would please you more----."

It was quite true that Camelia had made the appointment with Mrs. Grier, but on agreeing to go out riding with Sir Arthur, she had intended to ride to Mrs. Grier's house and make charming apologies--of which Sir Arthur's tyrannous monopoly would bear the brunt. By her present plan both Mary and Mrs. Grier would be pleased. She congratulated herself on her thoughtful dexterity. Mary liked Mrs. Grier so much, liked almshouses and poor children, and especially liked the distributing of goodies among them; Mary gained everything by the little shuffle, and she was not at all prepared for a certain stiffening and hardening in her cousin's expression. "It is a lovely basket, and tea and curates galore," she added, turning on the final roulade of the barrel-organ, rather wondering, for the coldness of Mary's look was apparent, though Camelia did not divine the underlying confusion.

Mary was well trained in self-abnegation, but she turned her eyes away without replying for a moment: "Could you not send word to Mrs. Grier?"

she asked.

Camelia felt quite a shock of surprise at the tone, and a sense of injury that hardened her in advance against possible opposition.

"Oh, it is too late, my dear--she would be terribly disappointed--and the children--and the tea prepared for me--the people invited. Why, Mary, don't you want to go?"

"I wanted the ride," said Mary in a low voice; and growing very red she added, "I am afraid Mr. Perior will think me rude."

"Oh, I will make your excuses!" Camelia, in all the impetus of her desire, was much vexed by this ungrateful doggedness.

"Mr. Perior and I could ride over and explain," Mary added.

Camelia had never met in her cousin such opposition, and a certain dryness mingled with the real grievance in her voice as she said--

"Is your heart so set on this ride, Mary? Mr. Perior will take you out again, and you know that the pleasure is always rather one-sided, since he particularly likes a good gallop across country. It isn't quite like you, I think, to disappoint a friend like Mrs. Grier--you are so fond of Mrs. Grier, I thought."

During this speech Mary's face grew crimson. Setting her lips, she began quickly to draw off her gloves; Camelia felt suddenly a sense of discomfort.

"You will enjoy it, I am sure, Mary."

Mary made no reply, and silently unb.u.t.toned her coat.

"I beg of you, Mary, not to go if you are going to feel aggrieved about it. I do not see what I am to do. I thought it would be quite a treat for you."

"Thanks, Camelia."

"You will go, then?"

"Oh yes, Camelia."

Camelia felt more and more uncomfortable; her object was gained and she could hardly relinquish it, but she wanted to hurry away from the unpleasing contemplation of this badly-tempered instrument. She lingered, however.

"You are right to keep on that straw hat--it is very becoming to you.

Here, let me draw your hair forward a little. Now you will make conquests, Mary! The basket is in my dressing-room on the little table.

Shall I order the dog-cart for you?"

"Thanks very much, Camelia."

"Mary, you make me feel--horridly!"

Camelia could not check that impulse. "Do you _mind_? You see that I can't get out of it; you see that it wouldn't do--don't you? I hope you don't really _mind_."

"Oh no; I was a little disappointed, it was very thoughtless--very ungrateful." The conventional humility rasped Camelia's discontent. "And you will tell Mr. Perior?--you will explain?"

"Yes, yes, dear."

Mary was now so completely divested of riding attire that Camelia left her with the a.s.surance of having effected her purpose most thoroughly.

But alas! it had rather lost its savor. As she slowly descended the stairs she realized that the game, though worth the candle, perhaps, had been decidedly spoiled by the candle's unmanageable smoking and guttering. Mary's decided sullenness had been quite an unlooked-for feature in the little scheme; it had involved her in a web of petty falsities for which Perior would have scorned her.

Remembering that to account comfortably for Mary's absence she must lie to him, she came to a sudden standstill outside the door of the morning-room. How badly she had managed everything! She did not want to lie to him. Why had not Mary been delighted to go--as she should have been? Only the thought of Mary's general disagreeableness fortified her a little.

Perior was still sitting on the sofa, abstractedly staring at the floor, as she entered.

"Oh, Camelia," he said disappointedly.

"Only Camelia." She felt herself, to her dismay and disgust, growing red.

"Where is Mary?"

"I have come to make Mary's excuses. She can't go--is so sorry." With an effort she regained her composure. After all, he would never dream that to be with him she had sent off Mary, and the sudden seeing of the matter in that absolving light relieved her; it was rather to her credit, so seen, and her fondness for Perior really touching.

"Can't go?" he repeated staring. "Why she sent me word that she would be ready in twenty minutes."

"She had forgotten an engagement with Mrs. Grier; I was to have gone--"

(it was as well to be as near the truth as possible), "but couldn't because of my headache--I have a horrible headache. I would have put her off, but the engagement was one of a sort Mary especially likes, a round of village visits to the almshouses, and poor children, and afterwards tea and curates galore--" Camelia realized that with a confused uninventiveness she was repeating her own words to Mary. "Mary likes tea and likes curates," she went on, pushed even further by that sense of confusion--she had never told her old friend so many lies, "and the curates like Mary, and no doubt one day she will see her way to making a choice among them." Her voice was smooth, and certainly left no cranny for suspicion, yet Perior still stared.

"What a vacuous look!" laughed Camelia, wishing that she had not been forced to cross quite so many Rubicons.

"I feel sure that Mary has been sacrificing herself--as usual," he said slowly.

"Sacrificing herself? Conceited man! Do you weigh yourself against half-a-dozen curates--reinforced by tea and sandwiches?"

"Mary likes our rides immensely--and I never saw any signs of a fondness for curates."

"No, but a fondness for Mrs. Grier, almshouses, tea, curates, and the Lady Bountiful atmosphere combined."

Perior looked absently out of the window; presently he said, "I don't think she is looking over well--you know her father died of consumption."

"Don't; he was my uncle!" Camelia exclaimed. "Still, my chest is as sound as a drum." She gave it a rea.s.suring thump.