At the second turning, where the path among the trees wound away out of sight of the house, she came suddenly face to face with Magdalen and Frank:  they were sauntering toward her, arm in arm, their heads close together, their conversation apparently proceeding in whispers.  They looked suspiciously handsome and happy.  At the sight of Norah both started, and both stopped.  Frank confusedly raised his hat, and turned back in the direction of his father’s cottage.  Magdalen advanced to meet her sister, carelessly swinging her closed parasol from side to side, carelessly humming an air from the overture which had preceded the rising of the curtain on the previous night.

“Luncheon-time already!” she said, looking at her watch.  “Surely not?”

“Have you and Mr. Francis Clare been alone in the shrubbery since ten o’clock?” asked Norah.

“Mr. Francis Clare!  How ridiculously formal you are.  Why don’t you call him Frank?”

“I asked you a question, Magdalen.”

“Dear me, how black you look this morning!  I’m in disgrace, I suppose.  Haven’t you forgiven me yet for my acting last night?  I couldn’t help it, love; I should have made nothing of Julia, if I hadn’t taken you for my model.  It’s quite a question of Art.  In your place, I should have felt flattered by the selection.”

“In your place, Magdalen, I should have thought twice before I mimicked my sister to an audience of strangers.”

“That’s exactly why I did it—­an audience of strangers.  How were they to know?  Come! come! don’t be angry.  You are eight years older than I am—­you ought to set me an example of good-humor.”

“I will set you an example of plain-speaking.  I am more sorry than I can say, Magdalen, to meet you as I met you here just now!”

“What next, I wonder?  You meet me in the shrubbery at home, talking over the private theatricals with my old playfellow, whom I knew when I was no taller than this parasol.  And that is a glaring impropriety, is it?  ‘Honi soit qui mal y pense.’  You wanted an answer a minute ago—­there it is for you, my dear, in the choicest Norman-French.”

“I am in earnest about this, Magdalen—­”

“Not a doubt of it.  Nobody can accuse you of ever making jokes.”

“I am seriously sorry—­”

“Oh, dear!”

“It is quite useless to interrupt me.  I have it on my conscience to tell you—­and I will tell you—­that I am sorry to see how this intimacy is growing.  I am sorry to see a secret understanding established already between you and Mr. Francis Clare.”

“Poor Frank!  How you do hate him, to be sure.  What on earth has he done to offend you?”

Norah’s self-control began to show signs of failing her.  Her dark cheeks glowed, her delicate lips trembled, before she spoke again.  Magdalen paid more attention to her parasol than to her sister.  She tossed it high in the air and caught it.  “Once!” she said—­and tossed it up again.  “Twice!”—­and she tossed it higher.  “Thrice—­” Before she could catch it for the third time, Norah seized her passionately by the arm, and the parasol dropped to the ground between them.