“I am sorry,” said Wopse, stopping and turning his troubled eyes upon the fair face of his young relation.
“Let us walk on”—Susanna cast an apprehensive glance behind her—“or somebody——”
“Somebody will see us walking together!” said Wopse acutely.
“It is so much nicer,” Susanna said demurely, “when one can keep pleasant things to oneself. And we have had a good many walks and talks since you came down here, haven’t we? And cliff scrambles—and bicycle rides—and rows on the river. And the fun of it is that, although we are such pals, really, father and grandmother and Uncle Alaric believe that I positively detest you.” Her young laugh rang out gayly; she thrust a sprig of lavender, perfumed and spicy, under the painter’s nose. He captured the tantalizing hand.
“Do you not?”
“Detest you! You know I don’t.”
“May I have it?” It was the sprig of lavender. But the painter looked at, and squeezed, the hand.
“If you promise to make a big score on Thursday!”
Susanna, it must be admitted, was learning coquetry.
“I will—if you are looking at me!”