"Are you one of that quartette?" asks she, so saucily, yet withal so merrily that the hardest-hearted lover might forgive her. A little irresistible laugh breaks from her lips. Rather ruefully he joins in it.
"I don't think I need answer that question," says he. "To you at all events."
"To me of all people rather," says she still laughing, "seeing I am the interested party."
"No, that character belongs to me. You have no interest in it. To me it is life or death—to—you——"
"No, no, you mustn't talk to me like that. You know I forbid you last time we met, and you promised me to be good."
"I promised then the most difficult thing in the world. But never mind me; the principal thing is, your acceptance or rejection of that note. Joyce!" in a low tone, "say you will accept it."
"Well," relenting visibly, and now refusing to meet his eyes, "I'll ask Barbara, and if she says I may go I——" pause.
"You will then accept?" eagerly.
"I shall then—think about it."
"You look like an angel," says he, "and you have the heart of a flint."