“Yes, I suppose”—ignoring this insult, and turning to his companion—“that we ought to be moving.”
Captain Deverell had made himself comfortable on the wall, and was smoking a pipe.
“Before I go, won’t you tell me your name?” said Sir Harry, appealing to Mary. “You are better-looking, and better fun, than half the girls in England.”
“Thank you kindly, sir, for your good opinion”—and she dropped a curtsey. “My name is—a secret.”
“I see”—looking significantly at her; “you are soon going to change it.”
“I am—so.”
“May I be permitted to kiss your pretty little hand?”
“You may, if you please,” and she held it out across the gate.
Sir Harry took it in his, gazed at it in surprise, and pressed his lips on it. Then he turned it about and squeezed the sovereign into its small, rosy palm.
“Throw away his dirty money, Mary!” cried Pat. “Tell him yer able to buy and sell his likes! Throw it in his face, I tell ye!” he shouted passionately, “do ye hear me!”