“Gone in among the hollies,” he said. “Well, I’m not going to prick myself hunting for it in the dark. What a little spit-fire it is! What’s the matter with you to-night?”
“Matter enough. I’ve come to tell you never to make signals for me to come out again.”
“Why? I say, what a temper you are in to-night. Here, let me help you over, and we’ll go round to the arbor. You’ll get your feet wet standing there.”
“They are wet, and I shall catch a cold and die, I hope.”
“Oh, I say, Jenny!”
“Silence, sir! How dare you speak to me like that!”
“Come over, then, into the arbor.”
“I have told you again and again that I never would!”
“You are a little tartar,” he whispered. “You get prettier every day, and peck and say nastier things to me. But there, I don’t mind; it only makes me love you more and more.”
“It isn’t true,” she cried furiously. “You’re a wicked story-teller, and you know it.”