One morning they paid a cousinly visit—­a triple call.  “And, by Jove!” thought Ross as he watched her haughty little face and nonchalant manner, “she’s no milk-and-water nature, though she’s always so sweet-tempered with me.  She’s got all the temper a true nature ought to have.”

“To think of your ever getting married, Percy, and to Mr. Norval, of all men!” said Miss Leta Wilber.  “Why, we thought him engaged to the beauty and belle of last winter, Miss Agnes Lorton.”

“Well, yes, Leta, old girls like you and I are rather off the cards:  we don’t expect to catch the prizes generally—­we leave that for these younger ones, like Jennie and Lucille,” said Percy, coolly.

“A Roland for your Oliver, Leta!” laughed Jennie Wayne.  “I never venture to break a lance with Percy:  she always has an arrow in reserve to pierce you with.  I suppose you’ve found that out, Mr. Norval?”

“Found what out?  I fear I don’t follow you, Miss Jennie,” said he.

“That she’s very able to take her own part, this little cousin of ours,” said she, her beautiful face scarlet at his manner.

“Is she, though?  Well, I like that amazingly, do you know?”

“Like ill-tempered people?” said Miss Leta, snappishly.  “Is it possible?”

“Ill-tempered people?” with a wellbred stare. (Is there such a thing?) “No, indeed!  Why, birdie”—­and he leaned over, and, taking her hand, raised it to his lips—­“to think of any one calling you ill-tempered!”

“You silly boy!” laughed she.  “I’ll take my hand if you please, and don’t you believe but what you’ve married a termagant.”

The girls said afterward, in recounting the scene, it was simply disgusting.  Leta vowed, “The little baggage must be a witch and throw spells over people.  Look what fools she’s made of our boys for years, and Ross Norval, with all his splendid endowments, is just as bad.”

“And he did use to admire your form, Leta,” said Jennie, maliciously.  “I’ve seen him waltz you until it was hard to tell which face that long blonde moustache belonged to.”

“Ditto, cousin, and worse, if gossips speak the truth.  But don’t let’s say ugly things to each other.  We both hoped to win him once, and we have both lost him.  The little wretch will watch him like a hawk, and never let him come near a body.”

“Oh dear!” said her sister Laura, “if I only knew I was to do a German with him to-night, I’d be happy:  he holds one better than any man I know; and if Percy will let him dance with a body occasionally, I’d as leave she should have him as the rest of you.”

“Unless he’d chosen yourself, Laura, I suppose?”

“Well, yes, that would have made a difference, even to my laziness, especially if she’d have made dear old Harry stay at home by marrying him.”

That’s the way they talked, yet in a couple of weeks after each house had sent her an invitation to a large party—­“for you and Mr. Norval, dear Percy”—­and the invitation-cards stated the fact.