Luttrell, hardly sure whether she jests or is in sober earnest, opens his large eyes to their fullest, the better to judge, but, seeing no signs of merriment in his companion, gives way to his feelings a little.
"Well, you are cool," he says, slowly.
"I am not, indeed," replies innocent Molly. "How I wish I were 'cool,' on such a day as this! Are you?"
"No," shortly. "Perhaps that is the reason you recommended me a plunge; or is it for your amusement?"
"You are afraid," asserts Molly, with a little mischievous, scornful laugh, not to be endured for a moment.
"Afraid!" angrily. "Nonsense! I don't care about wetting my clothes, certainly, and I don't want to put out my cigar; but"—throwing away the choice Havana in question—"you shall have your lilies, of course, if you have set your heart on them."
Here, standing up, he strips off his coat with an air that means business.
"I don't want them now," says Molly, in a degree frightened, "at least not those. See, there are others close behind you. But I will pluck them myself, thank you: I hate giving trouble. No, don't put your hands near them. I won't have them if you do."
"Why?"
"Because you are cross, and I detest cross people."