"A rosebud set with little wilfulthorns,
And sweet as English air can make her, she."
The lines come hurriedly to Branscombe's mind, and linger there. Raising her head again, her eyes meet his, and she laughs, for the second time, out of the pure gladness of her heart.
"I think it was my happy thought," says Branscombe, mildly. "I suggested this dance to Clarissa only yesterday. Might not I, too, partake of the 'small return'?"
"It no longer belongs to me; I have given it all away,—here," says Georgie, touching Clarissa's cheek with one finger; "but for that," with a slow adorable glance, "I should be charmed."
"I think I shall get pencil and paper and write down the names," says Clarissa, energetically, rising and going towards the door. "Dorian, take care of Georgie until I return."
"I wish I knew how," says Branscombe, in a tone so low that only Georgie can hear it. Then, as the door closes he says, "Did you mean your last speech?"
"My last? What was it? I never remember anything." She very seldom blushes, but now again a soft delicate color creeps into her face.
"If you hadn't given it all away, would you have given me a little of that small return?"
"No."
"Not even if I were to give a ball for you?"