She mused a little soberly on the events of the day.
“That big coward, Otho Maury, I was beginning to fancy myself in love with him, but—I despise him now!” curving a red, disdainful lip. “And how I fooled them all! They really thought I was attempting suicide! Ha, ha! But how splendid Maybelle’s fiancé was; how brave, how cool, and if only—he wasn’t engaged, I believe I should have lost my heart to him—so there!”
Perhaps she had lost her heart to him anyway, in spite of Maybelle, for she could not get the thought of the big, handsome, brown-eyed fellow out of her little curly head, and she recalled with a sudden warm wave of color rushing to her face the audacious frankness of the words he had said to her in the water, answering her saucy jest:
“I’m sure the experience would be delightful, and if you like to try it when we are safe on land, I shall be most happy.”
Floy had thrilled with sweet ecstasy at his daring words, and now she said, audaciously:
“Yes, I—I should like to try it! I should throw my arms around his big neck and hug him tight, and kiss his sweet, brave lips, the beautiful hero, only——” and the words trailed off into a deep sigh at the sudden thought of Maybelle, who stood between them.
And like a dash of cold water came the memory of Otho’s words.
Beresford was angry with her for the joke she had played, and would like to shake her for a naughty, saucy little vixen.
“Let him try it—that’s all!” she exclaimed, shaking her bright head defiantly, then leaning it half despondently on her arm.
Wearied by the pleasures of the long, bright day, she sunk into slumber.