“You look as mad as a hatter, but you generally do that, only I think your hair makes you look madder than ever.”
She caught her hair bodily, gave it a violent shake, then took out her handkerchief and rubbed her cheeks until they glowed scarlet.
“What are you at, making yourself like a turkey-cock?” demanded Dacre.
“We’ll both go into the library,” said she in a sort of studied calm, “I heard them go in after dinner and they think I’m sick and don’t eat enough if I’m white. Come on quick, now, while I’m red.”
Dacre came near and looked into her face with some curiosity.
“You’re madder to-night than I ever saw you,” he observed. “You can go, you will if you want to, of course,—I’ll not, not if I knows it.”
“If you don’t I’ll do all I possibly can to keep you at home.”
That and her look were decisive. He followed her with an angry snort, and they went swiftly down the low, broad oak stairs with their winding curved balustrade, down through the softly-carpeted corridors. When they reached the library door they stood with one accord, stock-still.
“You’re whiter than ever,” said he.
“Wipe your nose, you’ve rubbed the black all over it instead of off it. Am I red now?”