The needle was drawn from the blue silk, and a needleful of scarlet went in instead, while the end of the blue thread was carefully secured in Beatrice’s left hand for future use.
“One, two, three, four,”—Beatrice was half audibly counting her stitches.
“It did please me, Beatrice.”
“Five, six—all right, Sir John—seven, eight, nine—”
“Does it please thee?”
“Thirteen, fourteen—it is pleasant to have some one to talk to—fifteen, sixteen—when I am not counting—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen.”
And in went the needle, and the scarlet silk began to flow in and out with rapidity.
“Do I interrupt thee, Beatrice?”
“Thanks, I have done counting for the present.”
“Would it interrupt thee very much to be married?”