Young Wilde plucked at the grass again, and chewed a daisy up almost viciously. There was a supreme selfishness in the way she had of perpetually harping upon her lack of love for him.
"There is always some fellow or other hanging about you," grumbles the young man, irritably; "you are an inveterate flirt!"
"No woman is worthy of the name who is not!" retorts Vera, laughing.
"I hate a flirt," angrily.
"This is very amusing when you know that your flirtation with Mrs. Hazeldine is a chronic disease of two years' standing!"
"Pooh!—mere child's play on both sides, and you know it is! You are very different; you lead a fellow on till he doesn't know whether his very soul is his own, and then you turn round and snap your fingers in his face and send him to the devil."
"What an awful accusation! Pray give me an instance of a victim to this shocking conduct."
"Why, there's that wretched little Frenchman whom you are playing the same game with that you have already done with me; he follows you like a shadow."
"Poor Monsieur D'Arblet!" laughed Vera, and then grew suddenly serious. "But do you know, Mr. Wilde, it is a very singular thing about that man—I can't think why he follows me about so."
"Can't you!" very grimly.