"I thought I told you not to come," says Miss Broughton, still frowning.
"I am sure you did not," contradicts he, eagerly; "you said, rather unkindly, I must confess,—but still you said it,—'Catch me if you can.' That was a command. I have obeyed it. And I have caught you."
"You knew I was not speaking literally," says Miss Broughton, with some wrath. "The idea of your supposing I really meant you to catch me! You couldn't have thought it."
"Well, what was I to think? You certainly said it. So I came. I believed"—humbly—"it was the best thing to do."
"Yes; and you found me sitting—as—I was, and singing at the top of my voice. How I dislike people"—says Miss Broughton, with fine disgust—"who steal upon other people unawares!"
"I didn't steal; I regularly trampled"—protests Branscombe, justly indignant—"right over the moss and ferns and the other things, as hard as ever I could. If bluebells won't crackle like dead leaves it isn't my fault, is it? I hadn't the ordering of them!"
"Oh, yes, it is, every bit your fault," persists she, wilfully, biting, with enchanting grace largely tinctured with viciousness, the blade of grass she is holding.
Silence, of the most eloquent, that lasts for a full minute, even until the unoffending grass is utterly consumed.
"Perhaps you would rather I went away," says Mr. Branscombe, stiffly, seeing she will not speak. He is staring at her, and is apparently hopelessly affronted.
"Well, perhaps I would," returns she, coolly, without condescending to look at him.