“Luck with me?” she cried.
“Yes, birdie.”
She was about to dart away, but he held her gently by the arm, and, stroking his moustache in a meditative way, said: “One day, years ago, I remember seeing you dragged out of bed at midnight—a rosy, tumbled heap—to say ‘How d’ye do’ to a rough young sailor, whom you kissed and were not at all afraid of. That was our first merry meeting, and every one since has been flavoured, seasoned, sanctified, what you will, by the same charming salute. You are not going to cut me off this time as you did this morning?” and he brought his black, teasing eyes close to her face.
“I made up for it on the bridge,” she said, hastily. “Let me go, you—you Spaniard.”
This was her choicest word of abuse, but it did not take effect now. “No, you didn’t,” he said, obstinately. “Now, Nina!”
The faint, the very faint tone of command in his voice warned her that this was one of the occasions on which she must not refuse him. But she drew her hand across her lips afterward, and murmured something about salt to her eyeballs.
He looked down at the orbs in question. “Those are bright, happy eyes, child. You don’t mean one-half you say;” and with this impeachment on her veracity he took his leave, and hurried away in the direction of the village.