‘It was James a moment ago,’ says she slowly.
‘Was it?’—quickly—‘I thought as much. But what was he doing a moment ago?’
‘Nonsense’—flushing hotly—‘you know what I mean—that it was James you were accusing a moment ago.’
‘True! And it should have been you. I am in fault this time, then. That makes a third.’
‘No, indeed, because I am not in fault at all.’
‘Then it was the immaculate one! What of him? Has he been at his old game again: chasing you round the garden to——’
‘Mr. Crosby!’ There is indignant protest in her tone, but the rich colour that rises to her cheek tells him that his guess has been at least partly accurate.
‘Not that,’ says he. ‘Foolish James!’ Even as he says these idle words he is cursing James up hill and down dale for the abominable impertinence of him. No little shred of allowance for James’ honest love for this pretty maiden enters into his heart.
‘Well—go on! That is only a negative statement—if it is a statement at all.’
‘There is nothing to tell. And’—she pauses—‘and, any way, I won’t tell it,’ says she.