"Don't make a scene—I just couldn't bear it," she pleaded. Looking down at her he saw that she was on the verge of tears.
"I'm sorry," he said gently.
"I'm so ashamed," she said pathetically, "what must you think!"
"That I should go back and knock his head off," said Ralph. "But if you ask me not to, I won't. I suppose that was Fernand?"
She looked at him in astonishment. "Do you know him?"
"Your father told me."
"Oh," she said, troubled, "father shouldn't have done that. But I suppose he was afraid of a meeting of this sort."
"How long has he been following you around?"
"Oh, for ages, it seems. Really, about a year. I never liked him, but lately he's been perfectly horrid, and acts in such a threatening way—you saw him. I can't see why he should take the trouble to annoy anyone who loathes him as I do. But let's forget it. We have had such a wonderful day that I don't want it spoiled." And then timidly, with downcast eyes: "I called you Ralph. You must have thought me very forward, but I wanted him to think—"
She stopped suddenly, and in confusion. And then, her natural gaiety coming to her rescue: "Heavens, the more I say, the worse I make it, don't I?"