“Is this by your own wish?”
“Well, no; not that I care two straws for society, but I will not conceal from you”—with a faint smile and drawing a pattern on the gravel with her pretty little shoe—“that I am not a social success.”
“Do you mean me to understand that you are what is called ‘not visited’?”
“If you look at it in that light, I suppose I am not,” she replied, glancing towards the garden-gate, and moving a few steps in its direction.
“Will you permit me to inquire the reason?” he asked, following her and interposing himself between her and the garden.
“I would rather not tell you,” she answered in a low voice, picking off the blossoms of syringa that embowered the gate, and putting them into her basket.
“But you will have to tell me,” he exclaimed, leaning his back against the gate and setting his straw hat with its zingari ribbon still farther over his eyes.
“I cannot,” she faltered, blushing furiously. “There is no good in telling you; it will only make you—I mean,” correcting herself, “it may annoy you.”
“Annoy me!” he echoed; “I am quite accustomed to that. Pray don’t study me in the matter; I am used to being annoyed, as you call it. Come, do not trifle with me any longer—tell me at once why you are not visited in the neighbourhood.”
“I told you before I could not,” looking down the gravel path that lay between them and the house, and evidently preparing for an abrupt departure.