There was Thea palpitating on a garden-seat, looking adorable in a white cashmere dress trimmed in black velvet, a big black hat with nodding white plumes on her head, a bunch of roses at her waist.
She rose to her feet with a guilty blush. Oh, would he suspect that she had come here to waylay him? would he think her bold and unmaidenly?
“Why did you run out of the path when you saw me coming?” he cried. “Didn’t you care to see me, little sister?”
He had caught both her hands in his after his usual fashion, looking eagerly into the charming face. She tossed her head with a petulant motion.
“I wish you wouldn’t call me that!” she cried.
“That—what?”
“Sister. It isn’t true, you know, and I—I—would not care to have it so. I never cared about brothers, anyway. Emmie’s brothers were not so nice to her, I’m sure. They liked other boys’ sisters best. Please, I don’t want to offend you, Mr. de Vere, but I’d rather be your little friend.”
He dropped the little hands and frowned.
“Very well, Thea,” he said, stiffly, displeasedly, not at all comprehending her eagerness to remove the least hint of a fraternal relation in her yearning to be more.
“Thea! You never called me that before. I—I like the old name best—from you,” she pleaded, with a swift, upward glance that made his heart beat madly.