indeed it were possible, that of intensifying them.
“I really think I ought to go and find them,” said Miss Bussey. “Come, Paul!”
She took a parasol, for the April sun was bright, and went into the garden. “When she came to the drawing-room window John was away at the end of the walk. She looked at him: he was reading a letter. She looked in at the window: Mary was reading a letter.
“Well!” exclaimed Miss Bussey. “Have they had a tiff?” And she slowly waddled (truth imposes this word-she was very stout) toward the unconscious John. He advanced toward her still reading; not only did he not see her, but he failed to notice that Paul had got under his feet. He fell over Paul, and as he stumbled the letter fluttered out of his hand. Paul seized it and began to toss it about in great glee.
“Good doggie!” Cried Miss Bussey. “Come then! Bring it to me, dear. Good Paul!”
John’s face was distorted with agony. He darted toward Paul, fell on him, and gripped him closely. Paul yelped and Miss Bussey observed, in an indignant tone, that John need not throttle the dog. John muttered something.
“Is the letter so very precious?” asked his hostess ironically.
“Precious!” cried John. “Yes!—No!—It’s nothing at all.”
But he opened Paul’s mouth and took out his treasure with wonderful care.
“And why,” inquired Miss Bussey, “are you not with Mary, young man? You’re very neglectful.”
“Neglectful! Surely, Miss Bussey, you haven’t noticed anything—like neglect? Don’t say——”
“Bless the boy! I was only joking. You’re a model lover.”
“Thank you, thank you. I’ll go to her at once,” and he sped towards the window, opened it and walked up to Mary. Miss Bussey followed him and arrived just in time to see the lovers locked in one another’s arms, their faces expressing all appropriate rapture.
“There’s nothing much wrong,” said Miss Bussey; wherein Miss Bussey herself
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