“As pretty as Dolly?”
“Dolly? Dolly’s a milkmaid and you’re a princess. Any one can see there’s no comparison. Dolly’s well enough, barring her carroty hair; but you’re so awfully distinguished-looking. I don’t see why you want me to tell you this; you must know it already.”
“I like compliments—I expect compliments; that’s one of the things you have to learn.”
“It’ll come pretty easy. I shall only have to say out what I think.”
“If you talk like that,” said Angela, “perhaps I’ll let you take me about London, after all. Now we must go back to the house; it’s getting shamefully late.”
“I don’t want to go up yet.”
“I do.”
Bernard looked down at her and laughed. “All right,” he said; “I guess you mean to have your own way.”
They came together slowly up the garden. The gold rectangle of the uncurtained window shone out in the dusk; the figures of Dolly and of Mrs. Merton appeared on the balcony, silhouetted against the light. Ella soon went in, but Dolly lingered, gazing at the dusky woods and the diamond gleam of the lake. Suddenly another figure came swiftly up the steps. Dolly turned at once towards the window; the lamplight fell on her face. Lal laid his hand on her arm and spoke in her ear: a single sentence, no more. Bernard saw his sister turn crimson. She answered briefly, broke away, went into the house. Lal fell back into the shadow.
“Did you see that?” whispered Angela.