"This time last week you couldn't have seen me at all," says Miss Beresford.
"True. I am ungrateful. And altogether this has been such a delightful evening,—to me at least: were," doubtfully, "you happy?"
"Very, very happy," with earnest, uplifted eyes.
"Darling love!—I am afraid I must give you up to Mrs. O'Connor now," he goes on, presently, when an ecstatic thought or two has had time to come and go. "But, before going, say good-night to me here."
"Good-night, Brian."
He has never attempted to kiss her since that first time (and last, so far) in the orchard; and even now, though her pretty head is pressed against him, and her face is dangerously close to his, he still refrains. He has given her his word and will not break it; but perhaps he cannot altogether repress the desire to expostulate with her on her cruelty, because he gives voice to the gentle protest that rises to his lips.
"That is very cold good-night," he says. "You would say quite as much as that to Kelly or any of the others."
"I shouldn't call Mr. Kelly by his Christian name."
"No; but you would, Ronayne."
"Well, I shan't again, if you don't like it."