Miss Beatoun grows decidedly white, even to her lips, yet is still thoroughly composed.
"But do I flirt?" she says. "I don't believe I do. Do you believe it, my darling, my treasure, my Tito?" to the dog. "Not you. No, no, Lord Chandos; it is not that at all."
"What is it then?" impatiently.
"Why, it is 'every one' who flirts with me, to be sure. And that is not my fault, is it?" with the most bewildering assumption of injured innocence.
And now we all rise and saunter towards the well.
"If you would only wish as I do," whispers Sir George to Dora, "I would be the happiest man alive."
"Would you?" says innocent Dora. "But how shall I know what you are longing for?"
"Can you not guess?"
"I am afraid I cannot. Unless, perhaps—but no, of course it would not be that. Indeed I do not know how to reach your thoughts. One must want so many things."
"I want only one."