He goes past her into the library, but she follows him—a lovely little penitent—with lowered eyes.
"Do scold me!" says she. "I was wrong; and I did it on purpose, too."
"On purpose?"
"Yes," hanging her pretty head; "I did it to annoy you! You were so—so nasty about Tom the other night—do you remember? So I wanted to make you really mad this time—just for revenge, you know; but, honestly, I didn't mean to be late for breakfast."
"Didn't you?" drearily.
"No, I didn't; you must believe that." She goes nearer to him, and slips her hand through his arm. "Maurice!" whispers she. He makes her no answer. She moves even closer to him, and, leaning her little head against his shoulder, looks up at him. "Do scold me!" says she again. The tender, childish voice touches him; it goes home to his heart—the heart that is so full of another. He looks down at her, and, stooping, lays his lips on hers. It can hardly be called a kiss; yet it satisfies her, to whom, as yet, kissing means so little. "Now I am forgiven," cries she triumphantly. "Is _that _your scolding?"
"I told you I couldn't scold you," says he.
As he says this he sighs heavily.
"What a sigh!" She pushes him from her with both hands. "After all,
I believe you hate me!"
"No, I don't," says Rylton.