'I know what a sceptic you are about women, Leslie; but her face is ever before me, by day and night. I can see it now looking at me, out of that blank barrack wall, as plainly as I see yours. She has indeed bewitched me!'
Fotheringhame looked at the wall indicated, shrugged his shoulders, and said, with a provoking laugh:
'I can't help thinking, old fellow, that the girl has been amusing herself with you, from the details you give me, and that a flirtation was all she wanted.'
'Fotheringhame!'
'Don't get excited. I am sure that, like other dear creatures,
'Her feet are so very little,
Her hands are so very white;
Her jewels are so very heavy,
Her head so very light;
Her colour is made of cosmetics,
Though this she never will own;
Her body's made mostly of cotton,
Her heart is made wholly of stone.'
'This may apply to some goddess of yours,' said Falconer, becoming seriously ruffled; 'but as for me——'
'There will be no more larks or rows,' continued Fotheringhame, laughing; 'no more chance medley flirtations at picnics or lawn tennis, or even in the conservatory; our mind, or what is left of it, must run only on one ideal, and on presents of dainty gloves for lovely little hands, books and bouquets, chains, lockets, and bracelets, pressure of the taper fingers, perhaps even a chaste kiss, as Byron has it——'
'By Jove, Leslie, how you can gabble!' said Falconer, but without a smile, for something peculiarly uncomfortable and damping in the closing details of his visit to Eaglescraig haunted him.
Perceiving this, Fotheringhame's banter ceased, and after a pause he said: