"How could I help it?" Rose answered, arching her pretty brows. "I could not say I didn't want him, could I?"
"Are you going to walk with him or me, Rose? I asked you before you went away, and I want to know now."
Rose meditatively clipped off a bud, crying out a little as a thorn pricked her finger, holding out the injured member for Tom to look at; but he looked over it at her, a flush on his handsome face.
"It may be play to you; it isn't to me," he said, his voice shaking a little. "Did you get the letter I wrote?"
"I don't know; I forget. I had a lot of letters. Yes, I expect I did."
"And you didn't trouble to answer it?"
"It's clear you don't know what a lot a lady's maid has to do when she's travelling," said Rose, petulantly. "It's 'Lancaster' here and 'Lancaster' there, and you've no sooner packed up than you begin unpacking again. What time should I get for answering letters?'"
"I wanted to know if you'd thought over what I said?"
"You can't expect me to remember what you said six weeks ago."
"You do remember, only you don't want to give a straight answer. That's about it," said Tom, bitterly.