"God bless my soul!" again ejaculated Tom Pynsent, "I never saw her look me in the face in my life!"
"My dear fellow, you are as green as a girl in her sixteenth year. Do you fancy a woman stares at you by way of shewing her true love? Her downcast looks and melancholy appearance betray her. She only brightens up when you address her, and to all other men she is cold as an iceberg. Such are Miss Wetheral's symptoms, and such are all delicate-minded women's manners, when they are not hunting down a fortune. I know the sex, Pynsent."
"Such a woman is worth a thousand scornful dames," remarked old Mr. Tyndal.
"Pynsent looks petrified!" exclaimed young Spottiswoode.
"Pynsent at fault, by the Lord Harry!" laughed his friend Vyvyan.
"Cold scent, Pynsent, after your late run," cried Spottiswoode, entertained beyond measure at poor Tom's égaré looks.
The group of gentlemen rallied unmercifully their bewildered companion upon his dull reception of a piece of intelligence which would have raised any other man from the dead. Tom Pynsent's temper stood all jibes with unwearied patience, and when his mind had somewhat recovered the standard of its usual tone, he rebutted their attacks in his own loud tone of voice.
"I don't mind any of your jokes; if a woman likes me seriously, I shall be sure to return it, and be very much obliged to her. I like Miss Wetheral very much, but I did not suppose she cared for me; how could I?"
"Why, you flirted with her abominably, once," remarked young Spottiswoode.
"Yes, perhaps I did so, but I had no idea she minded my nonsense."