"Stay," he said, with a profound sigh, "it is most provoking—the more especially as there is no dipping you into Lethe—but 'Hon[n]i soit qui mal y pense.' I did not say one word of which I need be ashamed, and as to its being a little ridiculous—why, it is very odd if a man cannot afford to be ridiculous now and then—eh, Daisy?"
He gave me an odd look, half shy, half amused. He could not help enjoying a joke, even though it might be at his own expense.
"Then you are not vexed with me, Cornelius?" I asked, looking up.
"Not a bit," he replied, smiling with perfect good-humour; "I acquit you of wilful indiscretion, my poor child; I should have shut the door—but one cannot think of everything."
He had laid his hand on my shoulder. I turned round and pressed my lips to it, for the first time, scarce knowing why I gave him the token of love and homage he had yielded to Miriam. It is thus in life; we are perpetually bestowing on those who give back again, but rarely to us. Every trace of vexation passed away from the face of Cornelius; he made room for me by his side, and as I sat there in my familiar attitude, he shook back his hair, and observed, with philosophic coolness—
"After all, she would have known it to-morrow; only," he added, a little uneasily, "I think there is no necessity to let Miriam suspect anything of all this: you understand, Daisy?"
"Yes, Cornelius," I replied submissively.
He smiled.
"What a docile tone! Do you know, my pet, it is almost a pity there is not some romantic mystery in this matter; how discreet you would be! how you would carry letters or convey messages! but your good offices will never be needed."
He spoke gaily; I tried to smile, but he little knew how my heart was aching.