"No, it is not that. It is only——. Oh, Brian, that day you speak of, when I was on that horrid hay-cart, did you—I mean—did I—that is—did I look very ungraceful?"
The word she is dying to say is disgraceful, but she dares not.
"Ungraceful?"
"Yes. Terry says that when we were passing you that day I was—was," with a desperate rush, "kicking up my heels?"
She is trembling with shame and confusion. Crimson has sprung to her cheeks, tears to her eyes.
"I don't believe a word of it," says Mr. Desmond, comprehending the situation at last. "But, even supposing you were,—and, after all, that is the sort of thing every one does on a bundle of hay,"—as though it is quite the customary thing for people generally to go round the world seated on hay-carts,—"I didn't see you—that is, your heels, I mean; I saw only your face,—the prettiest face in the world. How could I look at anything else when I had once seen that?"
"Brian!" turning to him impetuously, and laying both her hands upon his shoulders, "I do think you are the dearest fellow on earth."
"Oh, Monica! am I the dearest to you?" He has twined his arms round her lissome figure, and is gazing anxiously into her eyes.
"Yes,—yes, certainly." And then, with a naivete indescribable, and with the utmost composure, she says,—
"I think I should like to give you a kiss!"