"But I shall wait," said Rice.
He had bowed and turned away to the currant hedge, and Angélique was entering her father's lawn, when he came back impetuously. He framed her cheeks in his hands, and she could feel rather than see the power of possession in his eyes.
"Angélique!" he said, and the word rushed through her like flame. She recoiled, but Rice Jones was again in his father's garden, moving like a shadow toward the house, before she stirred. Whether it was the trick of the orator or the irrepressible outburst of passion, that appeal continued to ring in her ears and to thrill.
More disturbed than she had ever been before by the tactics of a lover, Angélique hurried up the back gallery steps, to find Peggy Morrison sitting in her chamber window, cross-legged, leaning over with one palm supporting a pointed chin. The swinging sashes were pushed outward, and Peggy's white gown hung down from the broad sill.
"Is that you, Peggy?" said Angélique. "I thought you were dancing at Vigo's this evening."
"I thought you were, too."
"Mama felt obliged to send our excuses, on account of going to sister's baby."
"How beautiful these large French families are!" observed Peggy; "some of them are always dying or teething, and the girls are slaves to their elders."
"We must be beautiful," said Angélique, "since two of the Morrisons have picked wives from us; and I assure you the Morrison babies give us the most trouble."
"You might expect that. I never saw any luck go with a red-headed Morrison."