“Oh, but it sha’n’t come to nothing. I’ll speak to her for you myself.”
“You dare!” said Bayre, simply.
And Olwen began to laugh under her breath. He caught her by the wrist.
“Are you going to wait, Olwen, till you come across a fellow like the hero of your book?” asked he, in the driest of dry tones.
She bit her lip, and looking down, struggled to get away.
“Oh, I don’t know,” said she, quickly; “men outside books are never like those inside them. It’s useless to expect it.”
“I think so too. Better give up all hope of meeting a paper-and-print hero, and settle down with a harmless, commonplace ten-thousand-pounder, who can turn his back upon the jerry-built flat and the villa one-brick-thick.”
“Why, it is a romance, a real romance!” murmured the girl, softly, when he had kissed her for the second time.
“But it isn’t all your own, remember. I had a hand in this too. It takes one for the romance of the pen, but two for the romance of a kiss.”
And they laughed softly over the little joke, and, laughing still, reached the avenue of the shut-up house.