“Hang Miss Beaufort!” exclaimed Coventry, with such energy that Jean broke into a musical laugh, despite her trouble. He joined in it, and, for an instant they stood looking at one another as if the last barrier were down, and they were friends indeed. Jean paused suddenly, with the smile on her lips, the tears still on her cheek, and made a warning gesture. He listened: the sound of feet mingled with calls and laughter proved that they were missed and sought.
“That laugh betrayed us. Stay and meet them. I cannot.” And Jean darted out upon the lawn. Coventry followed; for the thought of confronting so many eyes, so many questions, daunted him, and he fled like a coward. The sound of Jean’s flying footsteps guided him, and he overtook her just as she paused behind a rose thicket to take breath.
“Fainthearted knight! You should have stayed and covered my retreat. Hark! they are coming! Hide! Hide!” she panted, half in fear, half in merriment, as the gay pursuers rapidly drew nearer.
“Kneel down; the moon is coming out and the glitter of your embroidery will betray you,” whispered Jean, as they cowered behind the roses.
“Your arms and hair will betray you. ‘Come under my plaiddie,’ as the song says.” And Coventry tried to make his velvet cloak cover the white shoulders and fair locks.
“We are acting our parts in reality now. How Bella will enjoy the thing when I tell her!” said Jean as the noises died away.
“Do not tell her,” whispered Coventry.
“And why not?” she asked, looking up into the face so near her own, with an artless glance.
“Can you not guess why?”
“Ah, you are so proud you cannot bear to be laughed at.”