“That doesn’t make any difference.”
This answer was a blow. Miss Lane was the first woman who had ever excited in him any but the most fleeting admiration. He looked upon women as a nuisance in the hunting-field and a positive danger at a battue, pretty things whose society at any sort of gathering gave one more trouble than it was worth, and who ought accordingly to feel deeply grateful for any admiration that might be cast to them. Of course this applied only to his equals; with women of a lower rank he was at his ease; and it was a current prophecy that he would be a bachelor till he was forty-five, and then marry his cook. So he looked down at Miss Lane in amazement without speaking, when she thus candidly stated that his admiration “didn’t make any difference.”
“Then you hate me, I see,” said he, at last, deeply hurt and offended.
“Hate you? No; indeed I don’t, Mr. Braithwaite!” she answered, rising.
It had only just dawned upon her that his unusually restless manner and his flushed face were the result of anything but his natural awkwardness, and she was anxious to cut the interview short, for fear any of the Mainwarings should pass—they would perhaps not even believe she had met him by accident.
“Then why do you want to run away from me? I may be a brute; but I won’t hurt you.”
“Oh, no; I am not afraid of that!” said she, her face breaking into the bright, child-like smile that made her so charming to him. “But it is really time for me to go in.”
She held out her hand; but he did not seem to see it. He was positively shaking with nervousness, preparing for a bold stroke.
“Won’t you shake hands, or have I offended you too deeply?” she asked, with simple, smiling coquetry.
Harry jerked his head suddenly down to her upturned face, and kissed her. George, who was observing this scene, watched for the girl’s start, listened for the scream.