“He is not,” cried Compton, almost sniveling; but he altered his mind, and fired up. “You are a naughty, story-telling girl, to say that.”
“Bless me!” said Ruperta, coloring high, and tossing her head haughtily.
“I don't like you now, Ruperta,” said Compton, with all the decent calmness of a settled conviction.
“You don't!” screamed Ruperta. “Then go about your business directly, and don't never come here again! Scolding me! How dare you?—oh! oh! oh!” and the little lady went off slowly, with her finger in her eye; and Master Compton looked rather rueful, as we all do when this charming sex has recourse to what may be called “liquid reasoning.” I have known the most solid reasons unable to resist it.
However, “mens conscia recti,” and, above all, the cowslips, enabled Compton to resist, and he troubled his head no more about her that day.
But he looked out for her the next day, and she did not come; and that rather disappointed him.
The next day was wet, and he did not go into the meadow, being on honor not to do so.
The fourth day was lovely, and he spent a long time in the meadow, in hopes: he saw her for a moment at the gate; but she speedily retired.
He was disappointed.
However, he collected a good store of cowslips, and then came home.