"Perhaps I do," said Alice, with a whimsical smile.
"If so, why aren't you plain with me?" said Montrose, ruffled.
The mothering instinct, which makes every woman see in every man a child to be soothed and petted, rose within her. "Let us slap the bad, naughty table that has hurt baby," she said demurely, and Montrose looked up to see the laughter in her eyes.
"You little witch!" He caught her hand again and this time so roughly that she winced at the delicious pain. "You know quite well what I mean."
"I do—Douglas!"
"Oh!" He leaned towards her so violently that she swung aside in alarm.
"The eyes of Europe are on us," she said hastily, indicating the throng of children and nursemaids and grown-up people round the pond and on the paths and lying on the grass.
"Bother the eyes of Europe." But he saw that she was right and he did not dare proclaim his love by taking her in his arms. It was rather a poor thing to content himself with squeezing her hand. But he did, and so hard that she uttered an exclamation.
"Mr. Montrose, you are hurting me."
"Am I? Poor hand! I wish I could kiss it!" with a swift look round, he managed to do so. "There—Alice. Don't you dare to call me anything but Douglas."