"Yes,—you," vehemently.
A pause. They are much farther apart by this time, and are looking anywhere but at each other. Molly has her lap full of daisies, and is stringing them into a chain in rather an absent fashion; while Luttrell, who is too angry to pretend indifference, is sitting with gloom on his brow and a straw in his mouth, which latter he is biting vindictively.
"I don't believe I quite understand you," says Molly at length.
"Do you not? I cannot remember saying anything very difficult of comprehension."
"I must be growing stupid, then. You have accused me of flirting; and how am I to understand that, I who never flirted? How should I? I would not know how."
"You must allow me to differ with you; or, at all events, let me say your imitation of it is highly successful."
"But," with anxious hesitation, "what is flirting?"
"Pshaw!" wrathfully, "have you been waiting for me to tell you? It is trying to make a fool of a fellow, neither more nor less. You are pretending to love me, when you know in your heart you don't care that for me." The "that" is both forcible and expressive, and has reference to an indignant sound made by his thumb and his second finger.
"I was not aware that I ever 'pretended to love' you," replies Molly, in a tone that makes him wince.
"Well, let us say no more about it," cries he, springing to his feet, as though unable longer to endure his enforced quietude. "If you don't care for me, you don't, you know, and that is all about it. I dare say I shall get over it; and if not, why, I shall not be the only man in the world made miserable for a woman's amusement."