She did not choose to ask what reason had existed for considering him in selecting her attire. It was better not to notice his presumption, and she became more absorbed in her music.
Peyton strode up and down a few moments, then sat by the table, and rested his cheek on his hand, wearing a somewhat injured look.
“Major Colden, eh?” he mused. “To think I should come upon him again!” He essayed to renew conversation. “I trust, Miss Philipse, when I am gone—” But Elizabeth was now oblivious of surroundings; the notes from the spinet became louder, and she began to hum the air in a low, agreeable voice. Peyton looked hopeless. Presently he stood up again, watching her.
Elizabeth brought the piece to a lively finish, rose capriciously, took up the flowers she had laid on the spinet earlier in the evening, put them in her corsage, and made to readjust the bracelet on her right 221 arm. In this attempt, she accidentally dropped the bracelet to the floor. Peyton ran to pick it up. But she quickly recovered it before he could reach it, put it on, walked to the table and sat down by it, removed the flowers from her bosom to the table, took up the volume of “The School for Scandal,” and turned the leaves over as if in quest of a certain page.
While she was looking at the book, Peyton took up the flowers. Elizabeth, as if thinking they were still where she had laid them, put out her hand to repossess them, keeping her eyes the while on the book. For a moment, her hand ranged the table in search, then she abandoned the attempt to regain them.
Peyton held them out to her.
“No, I thank you,” she said, laying down the book, and went back to the spinet.
“Ah, you give them to me!” cried Peyton, with sudden pleasure.
“Not at all! I merely do not wish to have them now.”
“Oh,” said he, thinking to make account by finding offence where none was really expressed, “has my touch contaminated them for you?”