"
Marguerite knew from her mother's fretted looks that she had been
somewhat annoyed, and judging that Evelyn had something to do in the
matter, said nothing, but quietly withdrew to her own apartments.
Although Mrs. Verne and her daughter spent much of their time in
Mrs. Arnold's elegant suite of rooms, they occupied an exclusive
suite of apartments in an aristocratic square not far distant.
Marguerite had been amusing herself in reading over some extracts
from her pocket diary when a pretty young page entered with an
exquisite bouquet of rare exotics.
"How lovely," was the simple remark, as the girl took them in her
hand and held them out to view, while the fragrance exhaled was
almost overwhelming.
A tiny note, peeped out between a cluster of heliotrope and blush
roses.
"It is provoking," thought the maiden, as she drew forth the
perfumed billet-doux and read what might be considered a declaration
of love.
Sir Arthur Forrester was not a dissipated man, nor was he a
disagreeable man, yet he was not what a girl of Marguerite Verne's
nature would desire for a husband.
"This is just what mamma has been angling for," thought Marguerite
as she tore up the note into tiny shreds and showed more spirit than
her sister Eve would have given her credit for.
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