"Thanks—no!" replied Kendal, shortly, still without turning his head. Then, after a brief pause:
"Or would you like me to show you a new book of poems I just bought?"
"You needn't mind. Pray don't trouble yourself," he responded.
Dorothy looked at him an instant, quite as though she was ready to cry; then the best thing that could have happened, under the circumstances, came to her relief.
She grew angry.
"I wouldn't show you the book now, to save your life!" she cried, her breath coming and going in panting gasps, and her cheeks flaming as scarlet as the deep-red rose she had brought him as a peace-offering; "nor would I give you this flower. I'd tear it up and stamp it beneath my feet first—you are so mean!"
He turned with a very tantalizing smile, and looked at her out of the corners of his eyes.
She had hidden her face in her hands, but by the panting of her breast he saw that she was weeping, that a storm of sobs was shaking her childish frame.
He stooped and passed his arm lightly around the slim waist, his hand holding hers.
Dorothy trembled.