"I have never been near it since," says Monica.
"I know that," returns he, meaningly.
"How?" is almost framed upon her lips; but a single glance at him renders her dumb. Something in his expression suggests the possibility that he has spent pretty nearly all his time since last they met, and certainly all his afternoons, upon that shady river just below the pollard willows, in the vain hope of seeing her arrive.
She blushes deeply, and then, in spite of herself, laughs out loud, a low but ringing laugh, full of music and mischief.
This most uncalled-for burst of merriment has the effect of making Mr. Desmond [preternaturally] grave.
"May I ask what you are laughing at?" he says, with painful politeness; whereupon Miss Beresford checks her mirth abruptly, and has the grace to blush again even harder than before. Her confusion is, indeed, the prettiest thing possible.
"I don't know," she says, in an evasive tone.
"People generally do know what they are laughing at," contends he, seriously.
"Well, I don't," returns she, with great spirit.
"Of course not, if you say so; but," with suppressed wrath, "I don't myself think there is anything provocative of mirth in the thought of a fellow wasting hour after hour upon a lonely stream in the insane but honest hope of seeing somebody who wouldn't come. Of course in your eyes the fellow was a fool to do it; but—but if I were the girl I wouldn't laugh at him for it."