Cornelius did not say which of the two evils—being disturbed or overheard by me—he would have preferred. I sat at his feet, wistfully looking up into his face. It was always expressive, and now told very plainly his annoyance and vexation. It would scarcely have been in the nature of mortal man, not to resent the presence of a witness on so interesting and delicate an occasion.
"I never heard anything like it," he exclaimed, indignantly. "I am fond of you, Daisy, but you do not imagine I ever contemplated taking you—a little girl too—into my confidence, as twice I have been compelled to do. What do you mean by it?" he added, with a perplexed and provoked air, that to a looker-on might have been amusing.
"I mean nothing, Cornelius."
"Foolish child," he continued, impatiently, "not to stay on your couch, and let me fancy you had slept through it!"
"But that would have been a great shame," I replied very earnestly; "I came out on purpose that you might know."
"Thank you!" he said drily.
"I shall not tell," I observed, in a low tone.
"It is to be no secret," he shortly answered.
I had no more to say. Cornelius rose impatiently, walked about the room, came back to his place, and still looked unable to get over the irritating consciousness of having been overheard.
I rose to go; he suddenly detained me.