It was a pretty little speech. Prettily spoken. No answering word came to his lips, but the look of gladness in his eyes was eloquent. Eloquent enough to make her mentally pause again and ask herself: was she acting altogether wisely?
Miss Mivvins was sailing under false colours. Was not in a position to haul them down, or fly her own. But she found him entertaining and—and—and very pleasant to talk to. She left it at that.
She could not afterwards remember much of what they talked about on their walk along the wall homewards. But she was conscious of spending a very pleasant afternoon; that it had passed away all too quickly. The most entertaining conversations are usually those which flow so smoothly that we forget to note the landmarks and stepping-stones on the way.
She was in a quandary: dared not reveal to him her true self. She had learnt enough of him to know that if she ran up her own flag, one glance at the masthead would mean his sheering right away.
She was not at all anxious that that should happen; did not want to lose him. She had grown to—to—to more than like him. Why, she asked herself petulantly, why could he not be as other men?
The rain held off till they reached her gate. There they said good-bye, shaking hands for the first time. The touch thrilled them both. As an outcome he saw possibilities; felt what their meeting might possibly lead to. It was a pleasant feeling. Things were coloured by it—colour of the rose.
Her good-bye was spoken lightly. Instinctively she tried to counteract that thrill. Yet there was a lingering tone in her voice as she said, finally:
"Till eight o'clock."
Then came Gracie's turn. He stooped down, lifted and kissed her. She said—
"Good-bye, Prince Charlie. I shan't see you in the evening because I go to bed at half-past seven."