"Yes, I will come with you," she says, raising her soft eyes to his. In her whole manner, voice, and bearing there is something so sweet and childish and trusting as to render Desmond her slave upon the spot.
The path to the rose-garden leads away from Miss Priscilla, so they avoid detection as they go.
But they are singularly silent and grave; when the garden is reached they pass between the rows of growing blossoms mute, if rich in thought. At last, when silence is becoming too eloquent to be borne, her companion turns to her.
"It wasn't true what you said to me that last day, was it?" he asks, with far more anxiety than the occasion seems to demand. "Not really, I mean. You said it for fun, perhaps—or——It has been with me ever since. I can't forget it. You said you disliked sudden friendships, and the way you said it made me think you disliked me. Tell me I thought wrong."
"Quite wrong," in a low tone. She is plucking a rose to pieces, and keeps her eyes downcast. "When I said that, I was angry about something."
"About something I said?"
"No. Nothing you said."
"Something I did, then?" growing more and more anxious.
"Ye-es."
"What was it?"