“But I must go again,” she objected demurely, but with a flash of mirth in her dark eyes. “I shall have to go soon, too.”
“You shan’t.” His hand closes, on hers, as if the prohibition was to be put in force at that moment and by physical agency.
“Diddums teasums then!” says the girl in tones of mock soothing, passing her little hand over his forehead and hair caressingly. “You know, dear, I like sometimes to arouse the savage in your composition. It amuses me, because I can send him back into his shell in a minute. But it’s all very well. You had a very good time of it while I was away. At Ardleigh, for instance!”
For all answer he laughs—quietly, almost inarticulately, as a man will laugh over some proposition manifestly, absurdly preposterous.
“That’s all very well, but I hear the Nevilles are very delightful people, and—”
“Broomsticks.”
”—And Clara and Maud, you know, were very sweet to you, and Isabel Pagnell—”
”—And Mother Frewen, and Miss Munch and Mrs Bunch. Go on. Run through the whole list—of broomsticks.”
“And then you used to have snug talks with Margaret over the fire on wet afternoons, and I don’t believe poor little me was missed a bit. Margaret can be very entertaining when she likes.”
“A broomstick!”