"I couldn't; the water would all run away."
"No, it wouldn't. See how I manage it."
The girl scooped the water into her rosy palms and drank it slowly. Then she looked at him, and again the wave of rose flowed in her cheek.
"I never could manage it; I'm such a duffer at things. Miss Pamela, would you let me drink from your hands? Do!"
Without a word she stooped and lifted the water and held it to him. He drank from the rosy cup to the last drop. Then he suddenly caught the hands that had served him, and pressed them to his lips. For a moment they were yielded to him, and then the girl drew back. He thought she trembled a little, and the ardour in his gaze grew.
"I am sorry," he said, "but I couldn't help it. You are not angry, Miss Pamela?"
"I am going home, Sir Anthony," she said.
"Not till you tell me one thing——"
He barred her way, putting himself in front of her. "Tell me what you wished for."
Her eyes fell before his, and as she stood with her hands clasped, and her head bent, she was a different creature from the wild Pamela of a few short weeks ago. The sunlight through the thinned branches fell on her short curls, for her hat—which she had been swinging by a ribbon—had fallen to her feet.