"My name is Norah Mountliffey."
"Ah, I knew your father very well." He drew back a few steps. "So you must excuse an old family friend for telling you that you make a charming picture at that gate. If I had a camera—Just as you are, please!" He held up his hand, as though to pose her.
"Am I quite right?" she asked, humoring the joke, with her merry mischievous eyes set on Lynborough's face as she leaned over the top of the gate.
"Quite right. Now, please! Don't move!"
"Oh, I've no intention of moving," laughed Norah mockingly.
She kept her word; perhaps she was too surprised to do anything else. For Lynborough, clapping his hat on firmly, with a dart and a spring flew over her head.
Then she wheeled round—to see him standing two yards from her, his hat in his hand again, bowing apologetically.
"Forgive me for getting between you and the sunshine for a moment," he said. "But I thought I could still do five feet five; and you weren't standing upright either. I've done within an inch of six feet, you know. And now I'm afraid I must reluctantly ask you to excuse me. I thank you for the pleasure of this conversation." He bowed, put on his hat, turned, and began to walk away along Beach Path.
"You got the better of me that time, but you've not done with me yet," she cried, starting after him.
He turned and looked over his shoulder: save for his eyes his face was quite grave. He quickened his pace to a very rapid walk. Norah found that she must run, or fall behind. She began to run. Again that gravely derisory face turned upon her. She blushed, and fell suddenly to wondering whether in running she looked absurd. She fell to a walk. Lynborough seemed to know. Without looking round again, he abated his pace.