"Than Mr. Ryde?" She stops and glances at the gravel at her feet in a would-be thoughtful fashion, and pushes it to and fro with her pretty Louis Quinze shoe. She pauses purposely, and makes quite an affair of her hesitation.
"Yes, Ryde," says he, impatiently.
"How can I answer that?" she says, at length, with studied deliberation, "when I know so little of either him—or you?"
His indignation increases.
"Knowing us both at least equally well, you must have formed by this time some opinion of us."
"I should indeed," says the young girl, slowly, always with her eyes upon the gravel; "but unfortunately it never occurred to me,—the vital necessity of doing so, I mean."
Though her head is still bent, he can detect the little amused smile that is curving her mobile lips. There can be small doubt but that she is enjoying his discomfiture immensely.
"Certainly there is no reason why you should waste a thought on either him or me," he returns, stiffly.
"No; and yet I do waste one on—you—sometimes," says she, with a gleam of tenderness, and a swift glance from under her long lashes that somehow angers him intensely.
"You are a coquette," he says, quietly. There is contempt both in his look and tone. As she hears it, she suddenly lifts her head, and, without betraying chagrin, regards him steadfastly.