In the ardor of his penitence he discovered himself holding her hand; she no longer seemed to be recoiling; and Heaven knows what might have happened next if an ostentatious sound of whistling had not come to their rescue.
“Bot you vill forgive?” he whispered, as they sprang up from their shady seat.
“Ye-es,” she answered, just as the serene glance of Count Bunker fell humorously upon them.
“You seem to have been plucking flowers, Tulliwuddle,” he observed.
“Flowers? Oh, no.”
The Count glanced pointedly at his soiled knee.
“Indeed!” said he. “Don't I see traces of a flower-bed?”
“I think I should go in,” murmured Eva, and she was gone before the Count had time to frame a compensating speech.
His friend Tulliwuddle looked at him with marked displeasure, yet seemed to find some difficulty in adequately expressing it.
“I do not care for vat you said,” he remarked stiffly. “Nor for ze look now on your face.”