“If you allude to my friend Miss Fairchild, you certainly do, Mr. Ensign,” the wicked little lady rejoined with a waiving of her usual ceremony that astonished Paula.
Mr. Ensign bestowed upon them his most courtly bow, but the flush that mounted to his brow—making his face one red, as certain of his friends were malicious enough to observe on similar occasions—indicated that he had been taken a little more at his word than perhaps suited even one of his easy and proverbially careless temperament. “Miss Fairchild will understand that I am not a Harvey Williams—at least before an introduction,” said he with something like seriousness.
But at this allusion to the gentleman whose name had been upon their lips but a moment before, both ladies laughed outright.
“I have just been accused of attempting the rôle of that gentleman myself,” exclaimed Paula. “If the fresh morning air will persist in painting such roses on ladies’ cheeks,” continued she, with a loving look at her pretty companion “what can one be expected to do?”
“Admire,” quoth the red bannered cavalier with a glance, however, at the beautiful speaker instead of the demure little Cicely at her side.
Miss Stuyvesant perceived this look and a curious smile disturbed the corners of her rosy lips. “What a fortunate man to be able to do the right thing at the right time,” laughed she, gaily touching up her horse that was beginning to show symptoms of restlessness.
“If Miss Stuyvesant will put that in the future tense and then assure us she has been among the prophets, I should be singularly obliged,” said he with a touch of his hat and a smiling look at Paula that was at once manly and gentle, careless and yet respectful.
“Ah, life is too bright for prophesies this morning. The moment is enough.”
“Is it Miss Fairchild?” queried Mr. Ensign looking back over his shoulder.
She turned just a bit of her cheek towards him. “What Miss Stuyvesant declares to be true, that am I bound to believe,” said she, and with the least little ripple of a laugh, rode on.