"Well, then, Harry--and nothing vexes me. What leads you to think so?"
Her full-fringed dark eyes looked clearly into mine; they seemed moist, yet defiant, and she tossed her pretty little head wilfully and petulantly. I felt that I had in some way displeased her; but dared not press the matter, for, with all her softness of heart, she had a little Welsh temper of her own.
Phil Caradoc gave me his entire confidence, especially after dinner, when men become full of talk, and inspired by bland and generous impulses. He related, without reserve, the whole episode that occurred in the conservatory; and I felt some compunction or annoyance that circumstances prevented me from having the same frankness with him, for none would have rejoiced in my success more warmly than he.
"For the life of me, Harry, I can't make out what Miss Lloyd means," said Phil, in a low voice, as he made his Cliquot effervesce, by stirring it with a macaroon; "she was ready enough to love me as a friend, and all that sort of thing."
"You have asked her, then?"
"Pointedly--hardly know what I said, though--one feels so deuced queer when making love--in earnest, I mean."
"A man can do no more than ask."
"Except asking again; but tell me, old fellow, have I a chance?"
"How should I know, Phil? But I think that the pattern sub of the Royal Welsh Fusileers, made up, like Don Juan,
"'By love, by youth, and by an army tailor,'