"I cannot hear you, Mr. Schmidt," she persisted, with unmistakeable malice in her lovely eyes.
"I'm rather glad that you didn't," he confessed. "Silly remark, you know."
"Well, I hope she doesn't marry him," said Miss Guile.
"So do I," said R. Schmidt, and their eyes met. After a moment, she looked away, her first surrender to the mysterious something that lay deep in his.
"It would prove that all American girls are not so black as they're painted, wouldn't it?" she said, striving to regain the ground she had lost by that momentary lapse.
"Pray do not overlook the fact that I am half American," he said. "You must not expect me to say that they paint at all."
"Schmidt is a fine old American name," she mused, the mischief back in her eyes.
"And so is Bedelia," said he.
"Will you pardon me, Mr. Schmidt, if I express surprise that you speak English without the tiniest suggestion of an accent?"
"I will pardon you for everything and anything, Miss Guile," said he, quite too distinctly. She drew back in her chair and the light of raillery died in her eyes.