"I'd rather take it with you, Mr. Desboro. Why shouldn't I say so?"
No words came to him, and not much breath, so totally unexpected was her reply.
Still looking at him, the faint smile fading into seriousness, she repeated:
"Why shouldn't I say so? Is there any reason? You know better than I what a girl alone may do. And I really would like to have some tea—and have it with you."
He didn't smile; he was too clever—perhaps too decent.
"It's quite all right," he said. "We'll have it served in the library where there's a fine fire."
So they slowly crossed the armoury and traversed the hallway, where she left him for a moment and ran up stairs to her room. When she rejoined him in the library, he noticed that the insurgent lock of hair had been deftly tucked in among its lustrous comrades; but the first shake of her head dislodged it again, and there it was, threatening him, as usual, from its soft, warm ambush against her cheek.
"Can't you do anything with it?" he asked, sympathetically, as she seated herself and poured the tea.
"Do anything with what?"