“Indeed!” said Isabel with sweet sarcasm.
“Yes, in deed, and in thought, and in word. More than that, I know now that you love me—oh, don’t take the trouble to deny it; it’s wrong to tell fibs. You told Dorothy you did, and she gave it away without meaning to. So you see it is no use, and you may as well give me that kiss I asked for the last time you told me the biggest fib of all the——”
“Not now—or ever!” she retorted, slipping under his arm and darting down the hall to the drawing-room door. He caught at her as she eluded him, and then ran after her. She paused with her hand on the doorknob.
“Keep your distance, or I vanish!” she threatened. “Stand right there where you are and tell me why you went off in a dudgeon that night; and why you froze me out two weeks ago; and why you haven’t been back since; and why——”
But the catechism was never finished. With a most lamentable want of vigilance she took her hand from the doorknob, and Antrim— But sufficient unto the day of youth are the small triumphs thereof.
Twenty minutes later Kate Hobart, coming down to dinner, stumbled over two young persons sitting on the lowest step of the stair. She recognised them even in the darkness, and being but a Sabbath-day’s journey beyond her own love affair, understood at once why the hall was not yet lighted.
Antrim sprang quickly to his feet and made the explanation which does not explain; and Kate benevolently helped him out by asking if there were anything new in Brant’s affair.
“No—yes, there is, too, by Jove! And we have been sitting here talking—that is, ah—er——”
“Spooning, Harry, dear,” cut in Isabel with refreshing frankness; “tell the truth and shame——”
But he went on without a break—“while Dorothy is waiting to tell us about Brant. Let’s go in and hear her story.”