"What a tarradiddle!" says Lilian. "Get off that table directly and let me convince you."
As Guy obeys her and draws himself up to his liberal six feet one, she goes to him and lays her soft head against his arm, only to find he—not she—is right; she is half an inch below his shoulder. Standing so, it takes Guy all he knows to keep himself from throwing his arms round her and straining her to the heart that beats for her so passionately,—that beats for her alone.
"You have raised your shoulder," she says, most unfairly: "it wasn't half so high yesterday. You shouldn't cheat!—What a charming room yours is! I quite envy it to you. And the flowers are so well selected. Who adorns your den so artistically? Florence? But of course it is the invaluable Florence: I might have known. That good creature always does the correct thing!"
"I think it is the mother sees to it," replies he, gently.
"Oh, is it? Kind auntie! What a delicious little bit of blue! Forget-me-not, is it? How innocent it looks, and babyish, in its green leaves! May I rob you, Sir Guy? I should like a spray or two for my dress."
"You may have anything you wish that I can give you."
"What a noble offer!—Are you going to waste much more time over your tiresome letters?" glancing with pretty impertinence at the half-finished sheets lying on the table near her: "I suppose they are all business, or love, or suchlike rubbish! Well, good-bye, Guardy, I must go and finish the drying of my hair; you will find me in the garden when you come to the end of your last billet-doux."
So saying, she trips away from him down the handsome oak-paneled room, and disappears through the doorway that leads into the hall.
Where she goes the sunshine seems to follow her. To Guy's fancy it appears as though a shadow has fallen suddenly into the room, when the last glimpse of her yellow hair has vanished out of sight. With a rather abstracted air he betakes himself once more to his writing, and tries to forget her.