“You are to blame yourself,” I said, huskily; “you let me think I might. And now I see you are angry.”
“Am I?” she said, smiling again. “I think you said the well, did you not!”
“And may I?” eagerly I asked, devouring her with my eyes.
“You may—at the well,” she answered, and then she laughed softly.
Again my spirits bounded.
“But I was not thinking of going there to-night,” she added, and the howlet in the bush beside me hooted at my ignominy.
I walked in a perspiration of vexation and alarm. It was plain that here was no desire for my caress, that the girl was but probing the depth of my presumption, and I gave up all thought of pushing my intention to performance. Our conversation turned to more common channels, and I had hoped my companion had lost the crude impression of my wooing as we passed the path that led from the hunting-road to the Bealloch-an-uarain.
“Oh!” she cried here, “I wished for some ivy; I thought to pluck it farther back, and your nonsense made me quite forget.”
“Cannot we return for it?” I said, well enough pleased at the chance of prolonging our walk.
“No; it is too late,” she answered abruptly. “Is there nowhere else here where we could get it?”