“Little boy!” said the voice, “please bring me my ball again.”
He brought it her, with undisturbed politeness. She was giggling; he laughed too, at that.
“You did it on purpose that time,” said he, solemnly.
“La! you don't think I'd be so wicked,” said she.
Compton shook his head doubtfully, and, considering the interview at an end turned to go, when instantly the ball knocked his hat off, and nothing of the malefactress was visible but a black eye sparkling with fun and mischief, and a bit of forehead wedged against the angle of the wall.
This being a challenge, Compton said, “Now you come out after that, and stand a shot, like a man.”
The invitation to be masculine did not tempt her a bit; the only thing she put out was her hand, and that she drew in, with a laugh, the moment he threw at it.
At this juncture a voice cried, “Ruperta! what are you doing there?”
Ruperta made a rapid signal with her hand to Compton, implying that he was to run away; and she herself walked demurely toward the person who had called her.
It was three days before Compton saw her again, and then she beckoned him royally to her.