"I cannot."
"Why?"
"Because I don't know myself."
"What! you confess you hate me without cause?"
"That is not it."
"What then?"
"How can I tell you," she says, impatiently, "when I know I don't hate you at all?"
"Lilian, is that true?" taking away the handkerchief gently but forcibly that he may see her face, which after all is not nearly so tear-stained as it should be, considering all the heart-rending sobs to which he has been listening. "Are you sure? am I not really distasteful to you? Perhaps even,"—with an accession of hope, seeing she does not turn from him,—"you like me a little, still?"
"When you are good,"—with an airy laugh and a slight pout—"I do a little. Yes,"—seeing him glance longingly at her hand,—"you may kiss it, and then we shall be friends again, for to-night at least. Now do take me down, Sir Guy: if we stay here much longer I shall be seeing bogies in all the corners. Already your ancestors seem to be frowning at me, and a more dark and blood-thirsty set of relatives I never saw. I hope you won't turn out as bad to look at in your old age."