She stood still, while he dawdled as long as he could over the arrangement of her wrap, but she cast anxious looks after the three receding figures, and she was the colour of an oleander blossom. He was a little disconcerted at her embarrassment; it amused him, but it touched him too.
Poor little timid child! Who would be so mean as to take advantage of her inexperience? Not he, certainly. He gave her his arm and led her into the house, with a deferential attentiveness that did not usually mark his deportment towards young girls. On their way they were accosted by a boy holding a couple of bouquets in each hand.
"Buy a bouquet for the opera, Sir?" said he, in his sing-song voice.
Mr. Kingston paused and put his glass in his eye. They were bright little nosegays, and one of them, much superior to the other, had a fringe of maiden hair fern and a rich red rose in the middle of it. He took this from the boy's hand, and offered it to Rachel with his elaborate bow.
"Permit me," he said, "to make a poor acknowledgment of my deep indebtedness to you for this."
And he touched the drooping petals of the Marshal Neil bud, and imagined he was paying her a delicate sentimental compliment.
If Rachel had been the most finished fine lady she could not have undeceived him more gracefully.
"Thank you," she said, simply, and she smiled for half a second.
To be sure her red rose was not redder than she was, but she held her head with a gentle air of maidenly dignity that quite counteracted the weakness of that blush.
Mr. Kingston began to suspect, with some surprise, that she was not so easy to get on with as she appeared. However, that did not lessen his interest in her by any means.