"Peter!—then of course you know I never flirted with you!" said Helena, with vigour. Peter hesitated, and Helena at once pursued her advantage.
"Let's talk of something more to the point. I'm told, Peter, that you've been paying great attentions—marked attentions—to a very nice girl—that everybody's talking about it,—and that you ought long ago either to have fixed it up,—or cleared out. What do you say to that, Peter?"
Peter flushed.
"I suppose you mean—Jenny Dumbarton," he said slowly. "Of course, she's a very dear, pretty, little thing. But do you know why I first took to her?" He looked defiantly at his companion.
"No."
"Because—she's rather like you. She's your colour—she has your hair—she's a way with her that's something like you. When I'm dancing with her, if I shut my eyes, I can sometimes fancy—it's you!"
"Oh, goodness!" cried Helena, burying her face in her hands. It was a cry of genuine distress. Peter was silent a moment. Then he came closer.
"Just look at me, please, Helena!"
She raised her eyes unwillingly. In the boy's beautiful clear-cut face the sudden intensity of expression compelled her—held her guiltily silent.
"Once more, Helena"—he said, in a voice that shook—"is there no chance for me?"