She did not lift her eyes as she spoke, but, rather, regarded the tip of her parasol, pressed against the toe of one little patent-leather slipper.
"What?" he asked calmly; so calmly that she could not tell whether he were dissembling ignorance of her meaning.
"You understand," she said—"last night——"
"How do you know?" he exclaimed suddenly; but before she could reply he added, gently, "I'm sorry—I'm dead sorry!"
She was moved to lift her eyes by the note of contrition in his voice. Her lips parted the least bit over her teeth and she smiled.
"How—how could you, dear?" she went on; "after—after—that night. I've been thinking about it all day. I didn't mean to mention it at first—but—but—I couldn't help it. You don't really like to do such things; do you, Jack? There, I know you don't. It's just what they call—spirits—I suppose——"
He laughed aloud, and his laugh was echoed back across the river. "Yes," he cried, gleefully—"that's it—spirits!"
She glanced up at him reprovingly. "You know I didn't mean that. I don't think you should laugh. But Jack dear,"—she gazed steadily, soberly, at him now—"you won't do it any more, will you?"
He did not answer.