“With your permission I will see you safely home,” he said, courteously, springing in after her and closing the door.
They had something more than three miles to drive to Bird’s Nest Cottage, and each heart thrilled with the consciousness of happy moments to be spent together.
As he seated himself by her side, Floy thought of her exquisite dream of the rose garden, where she had walked by his side, with his arm about her waist and his low voice whispering love into her willing and enraptured ears.
Her heart began to throb wildly, the blood leaped warmly through her veins, she felt her cheeks flush and her eyelids quiver in the semi-darkness. She was so overcome with sweet and painful emotion that she could not utter a word, and Beresford, thrilling with the same sweet pain, also remained silent.
He was so madly in love with the little blue-eyed beauty by his side that it was with difficulty he restrained himself from clasping the dainty form in his arms and whispering to her all that was in his heart—the admiration, the tenderness, the passion, the yearning to woo and win her for his worshiped bride.
But the faint remnant of reason remaining to him whispered, warningly:
“Wait till she knows you better. Such impetuous violence would frighten and disgust the little darling!”
So each remained silent for a brief time, thrilled and dominated by the presence of the other, then Floy, coming back to herself by a great effort of will, murmured, softly:
“You said you came to take me home. Did any one send you?”
“No; I came of my own free will,” he returned, gently.