He spoke in a jerky way, annoyed and discomfited by her forcing the conversation off the track. Though he was aware that he had gone further than he intended, when he proposed to spend the winter in Florence. Moreover, he was very tenacious by nature, and had rarely been seriously opposed during his short life. Her persistent refusal to tell him the cause of her deep-rooted dislike exasperated him, while her frank and careless manner and good-fellowship fascinated him more and more.
“Tell me all about the yacht,” she said. “I’m sure she is a beauty, though you call her an old tub.”
“I don’t want to talk about yachts,” he answered, returning to the attack in spite of her. “I want to talk about the chances of seeing you after we part here.”
“There aren’t any,” replied the young girl carelessly. “What is the name of the yacht?”
“Very commonplace—‘Lucy,’ that’s all. I’ll make chances if there are none—”
“You mustn’t say that ‘Lucy’ is commonplace. That’s my mother’s name.”
“I beg your pardon. I couldn’t know that. It always struck me that it wasn’t much of a name for a yacht, you know. That was all I meant. He’s a queer old bird, my father; he always says he took it from the Bride of Lammermoor, Heaven knows why. But please—I really can’t go away and feel that I’m not to see you again soon. You seem to think that I’m chaffing. I’m not. I’m very serious. I like you very much, and I don’t see why one should just meet and then go off, and let that be the end—do you?”
“I don’t see why not,” exclaimed Clare, hating the unexpected longing she felt to agree with him, and tell him to come and stay in Florence as much as he pleased. “Come—it’s too cold here. I must be going in.”