All this was a perfect riddle to Mr. M’Kinlay, who had nothing for it but to utter a wise sentiment on the happiness of reconciliation. Even this was unfortunate, for she tartly told him that “there could be no reconciliation where there was no quarrel;” and then dryly added, “Is it not cold out here?”
“I protest I think it delightful,” said he.
“Well, then, it is damp, or it’s something or other,” said she, carelessly, and turned towards the house.
M’Kinlay followed her; gloomy enough was he. Here was the opportunity he had so long wished for, and what had he made of it? It had opened, too, favourably; their first meeting was cordial; had he said anything that might have offended her? or had he—this was his last thought as they reached the porch—had he not said what she expected he ought to have said? That supposition would at once explain her chagrin and irritation.
“Miss Georgina,” said he, with a sort of reckless daring, “I have an entreaty to make of you—I ask a favour at your hands.”
“It is granted, Mr. M’Kinlay,” said she, smiling. “I guess it already.”
“You guess it already, and you grant it!” cried he, in ecstasy.
“Yes,” said she, still graciously, as she threw off her shawl. “You are impatient for your tea, and you shall have it at once.”
And with that she moved hurriedly forward, and left him overwhelmed with shame and anger.