Suddenly a soft step sounded on the grass; Rex’s heart gave a sudden bound; surely it could not be––yes, it was––Daisy Brooks.
She drew back with a startled cry as her eyes suddenly encountered those of her hero of the morning. She would have fled precipitately had he not stretched out his hand quickly to detain her.
“Daisy,” cried Rex, “why do you look so frightened? Are you displeased to see me?”
“No,” she said. “I––I––do not know––”
She looked so pretty, so bewildered, so dazzled by joy, yet so pitifully uncertain, Rex was more desperately in love with her than ever.
“Your eyes speak, telling me you are pleased, Daisy, even if your lips refuse to tell me so. Sit down on this rustic bench, Daisy, while I tell you how anxiously I awaited your coming––waited until the shadows of evening fell.”
As he talked to her he grew more interested with every 19 moment. She had no keen intellect, no graceful powers of repartee, knew little of books or the great world beyond. Daisy was a simple, guileless child of nature.
Rex’s vanity was gratified at the unconscious admiration which shone in her eyes and the blushes his words brought to her cheeks.
“There is my favorite waltz, Daisy,” he said, as the music of the irresistible “Blue Danube” floated out to them. “Will you favor me with a waltz?”
“Miss Pluma would be so angry,” she murmured.