Dulcie impulsively caressed the Prophet, who turned his solemn, incandescent eyes on Barres. The Houri also looked at him, then, intoxicated by the soft spring evening, rolled lithely upon the new grass and lay there twitching her snowy tail and challenging the stars out of eyes that matched their brilliance.
Dulcie got up and walked slowly across the grass to where Barres stood:
“May I come to see you this evening?” she asked, diffidently, and with a swift, sidelong glance toward her father.
“Ah, then, don’t be worritin’ him!” grumbled Soane. “Hasn’t Misther Barres enough to do, what with all thim idees he has slitherin’ in his head, an’ all the books an’ learnin’ an’ picters he has to think of—whithout the likes of you at his heels every blessed minute, day an’ night!——”
“But he always lets me—” she remonstrated.
“G’wan, now, and lave the poor gentleman be! Quit your futtherin’ an’ muttherin’. G’wan in the house, ye little scut, an’ see what there is f’r ye to do!——”
“What’s the matter with you, Soane?” interrupted Barres good-humouredly. “Of course she can come up if she wants to. Do you feel like paying me a visit, Dulcie, before you go to bed?”
“Yes,” she nodded diffidently.
“Well, come ahead then, Sweetness! And whenever you want to come you say so. Your father knows well enough I like to have you.”