“And she was angry.”
“She did her best to be angry.”
“She was.”
“Till the next morning,” I answered.
“And then you begged her pardon?”
“I did nothing of the kind. I was not so young as all that.”
“But, at least, you were sorry?” Millicent suggested.
“Not from that day to this,” I replied. “It was too perfect.”
Millicent moved her chair a little further, and, as she did so—it might have been done purposely—you never can tell with Millicent—her foot touched mine gently; and as it remained there a moment, I felt more like Bassishaw than I would have cared to admit. She has since told me, I don’t mind saying, that I have good eyes; be that as it may, the mischief in her own was for a second tempered to an expression that—was nobody’s business but mine. I felt tempted to forswear my theory, and to regret the presence of an audience.
She rose gaily.