“Do not look at me, then,” says she, trying to pass him with a brusque half-laugh; and, for the first time in her life, feeling uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny of his surprised eyes.
But he catches her before she can escape. “What have they been doing to you?”
“They have been telling me that Colonel Baden-Powell has begun to lay,” replies she, deceitfully.
The confusion of sexes prevalent among the Darcy poultry is too familiar to the young man to raise a smile. He looses his detaining hold on his cousin’s sleeve, and there is an accent of resigned distaste in his next words.
“Of course yesterday’s news has brought on a frightful access of khaki? I saw the flames of their bonfire insulting the evening sky last night.”
“We ought to have had one too,” she retorts, with a sudden rush of opposition.
“Have we so much cause to rejoice?” he asks; and there is such unaffected feeling in his voice that her heart smites her.
The recent emotion and the present one mix and produce her next sentence.
“You are the only one left now?”
“Yes.” There is a faint inclination of surprise at her truism.