"That has nothing at all to do with what I mean. I only think you might show me a little more favor than the rest."
"Good-night, then, dear Brian. Now, I certainly shouldn't dream of calling Mr. Ronayne dear Ulic."
"Of course not. I should hope not, indeed! But still——there is something else that you might do for me."
Miss Beresford draws herself a little—a very little—away from him, and, raising her head, bestows upon him a glance that is a charming combination of mischief and coquetry. A badly-suppressed smile is curving the corner of her delicate lips.
"What a long time it takes you to say it!" she says, wickedly.
At this they both break into low, soft laughter,—delicious laughter!—that must not be overheard, and is suggestive of a little secret existing between them, that no one else may share.
"That is an invitation," says Desmond, with decision. "I consider you have now restored to me that paltry promise I made to you the other day in the orchard. And here I distinctly decline ever to renew it again. No, there is no use in appealing to me: I am not to be either softened or coerced."
"Well," says Miss Beresford, "listen to me." She stands well back from him this time, and, catching up the tail of her white gown, throws it negligently over her arm. "If you must have—you know what!—at least you shall earn it. I will race you for it, but you must give me long odds, and then, if you catch me before I reach that laurel down there, you shall have it. Is that fair?"
Plainly, from her exultant look, she thinks she can win.
"A bargain!" says Desmond. "And, were you Atalanta herself, I feel I shall outrun you."