“I’m not afraid of you,” denied Janice, hurriedly; “and of course I’ll go, if—if you think it best.”
“Then what is it frightens you, sweetheart?” persisted Jack, as they set off.
The maiden scrutinised the ground and horizon as if seeking an explanation ere she replied shyly, “’T is—’t is indeed no fear of you, but you—you never ask permission.”
The officer laughed exultingly. “Then may I put my arm about you?” he requested.
“’T will make walking too difficult.”
“How know you that?” demanded Jack.
“’T is—’t is easily fancied.”
Brereton’s free arm encircled the girl. “Try to fancy it,” he entreated. “And never again say that I do not ask permission.”
A mile down the road Jack halted. “I’ll not let you go further,” he groaned; “nor must I linger, for reminder of my wound still troubles me if I ride too quick.”
“Why did you not tell me you had been wounded when you took me away from the ball?” asked Janice, reproachfully.