Naturally I am covered with confusion, and, having had time to feel ashamed of my behavior during the evening, feel how especially unfortunate is this encounter.
"Do you often indulge in midnight rambles?" he asks, gayly, stopping in front of me.
"No," I return, as unconcernedly as I well can, considering my perturbation; "but to-night Miss Beatoun and I found so much to say about our friends that we forgot the hour. Don't let me detain you, Sir Mark. Good-night."
"Good-night," holding out his hand, into which I am constrained to put mine. As I make a movement to go on, he detains me for a moment to say, quietly, "I never saw you before with your hair down. You make one lose faith in coiffeurs. And why do you not oftener wear blue?"
There is not the faintest shadow of disrespect in his tone; he speaks as though merely seeking information; and, though the flattery is openly apparent, it is not of a sort calculated to offend. Still, I feel irritated and impatient.
"Fancy any one appearing perpetually robed in the same hue?" I say, snubbily; "like the 'woman in white', or the 'dark girl dressed in blue!'"
"You remind me of Buchanan's words," goes on Sir Mark, not taking the slightest notice of my tone. "Do you remember them?"
"'My hair was golden yellow, and it floated to my shoe; My eyes were like two harebells bathed in little drops of dew.'"
"My hair golden yellow!" exclaim I, ungraciously, "Who could call it so? It is distinctly brown. I cannot say you strike me as being particularly happy in the suitability of your quotations."
All this time he has not let go my hand. He has either forgotten to do so, or else it pleases him to retain it; and, as we have moved several steps apart, and are at least half a yard asunder, our positions would suggest to a casual observer that Sir Mark is endeavoring to keep me.