"It all depends. When we are happy we are generally virtuous. Misery creates vice."
"What a sententious speech!" He has taken up his fair burden again, and they are now (very slowly, I must say) descending the stairs. "Now here comes a curve," she says, with a return of all her old sauciness: "please do not drop me."
"I have half a mind to," laughing. "Suppose, now, I let you fall cleverly over these banisters on to the stone flooring beneath, I should save myself from many a flout and many a scornful speech, and rid myself forever of a troublesome little ward."
Leaning her head rather backward, she looks up into his face and smiles one of her sweetest, tenderest smiles.
"I am not afraid of you now, Guardy," she murmurs, softly; whereat his foolish heart beats madly. The old friendly appellation, coming so unexpectedly from her, touches him deeply: it is with difficulty he keeps himself from straining her to his heart and pressing his lips upon the beautiful childish mouth upheld to him. He has had his lesson, however, and refrains.
He is still regarding her with unmistakable admiration, when Miss Beauchamp's voice from the landing above startles them both, and makes them feel, though why they scarcely know, partners in guilt.
There is a metallic ring in it that strikes upon the ear, and suggests all sorts of lady-like disgust and condemnation.
"I am sure, Guy, if Lilian's foot be as bad as she says it is, she would feel more comfortable lying on a sofa. Are you going to pose there all the evening for the benefit of the servants? I think it is hardly good taste of you to keep her in your arms upon the public staircase, whatever you may do in private."
The last words are uttered in a rather lower tone, but are still distinctly audible. Lilian blushes a slow and painful red, and Sir Guy, giving way to a naughty word that is also distinctly audible, carries her down instantly to the dining-room.