This well-meant effort had no effect in readjusting the party; they all started together, and the ride was completed by a spirited neck-and-neck race between Alice and Geoffrey across the park.
The same evening, after dinner, it being a splendid moonlight night, they all strolled out about the pleasure-ground, except Miss Saville, who had too much regard for her rheumatic old bones. The French windows in the drawing-room opened on a terrace which led down by a flight of steps to a broad gravel walk. Mary and Reginald had come in, and were standing just inside the open window. Alice and Geoffrey had lingered behind, quarrelling, as usual. They could hear their fresh young voices coming up the walk in high argument. Reaching the steps, Alice sat down on the lowest and said:
“Now, Geoff, a truce to nonsense. Be a good boy, and I’ll tell your fortune with this daisy.”
“I’d much rather you would give me a kiss,” he replied, stealing a black arm round her taper white waist.
Mary felt Reginald, who was standing close to her, wince. “Ah, my friend,” she thought, “you are not altogether so cold or indifferent as you seem!”
Alice, perfectly unconscious of the close proximity of her cousin’s arm, went on:
“He loves me—a little, very much, passionately; not at all, a little, very much. She loves you—very much. I was sure of it! The red-haired girl at Southsea. It’s all very well to know the state of her affections, but you must not think of it. I would never give my consent—never, much less a wedding present.”
“I would a great deal rather have a kiss now, my pretty little cousin.”
“What on earth put kisses into your head, you ridiculous boy?”
“You!” said he, drawing her towards him and endeavouring to imprint a salute on her fair cheek.