“Neither have you; you shan’t outdo me in recklessness. I inspected your hat as I came through the pergola. I liked it immensely; I came near seizing it as spoil of war,—the loot of the pergola!”
“There would be cause for another war; I have rarely liked any hat so much. But the Baron will be after you in a moment. I can’t be responsible for you.”
“The Baron annoys me. He has given me a lot of worry. And that’s what I have come to ask you about.”
“Then I should say that you oughtn’t to quarrel with a dear old man like Baron von Marhof. Besides, he’s your uncle.”
“No! No! I don’t want him to be my uncle! I don’t need any uncle!”
He glanced about with an anxiety that made her laugh.
“I understand perfectly! My father told me that the events of April in these hills were not to be mentioned. But don’t worry; the sheep won’t tell—and I won’t.”
He was silent for a moment as he thought out the words of what he wished to say to her. The sun was dipping down into the hills; the mellow air was still; the voice of a negro singing as he crossed a distant field stole sweetly upon them.
“Shirley!”
He touched her hand.