"Do not," she said in a low voice.
"I won't, of course," he responded, quickly. "It would only make matters worse; your father would naturally dislike me, refuse to see me; but—well, it's very hard on me."
She looked at him again, gravely, thoughtfully, as if she were still puzzled by his persistence. Her eyes wandered to the dogs. Bess was still standing up against him, and Donald had thrown himself down beside him, and was regarding Ida with an air that said, quite plainly, "This new friend of yours is all right."
"You have made friends with the dogs," she said, with a slight smile.
Stafford laughed.
"Oh, yes. There must be some good in dumb animals, for most of 'em take to me at first sight."
She laughed at this not very brilliant display of wit. "I assure you they wouldn't cut me next time we met. You can't be less charitable than the dogs, Miss Heron!"
She gave a slight shrug to her straight, square shoulders. The gesture seemed charming to Stafford, in its girlish Frenchiness.
"Ah, well," she said, with a pretty air of resignation, as if she were tired of arguing.
Stafford's face lit up, and he laughed—the laugh of the man who wins; but it died away rather suddenly, as she said gravely: