She shook her head slowly, with her eyes fixed on his face. And he, of course, misread the flush on her cheek, the dash of excitement in her eyes. And her low reply, too, “We'd better stay here,” was almost a caress. He leaned eagerly over the table, and said in a voice as low as hers: “When are you going to let me see you? There's no use in my trying to stay away—I couldn't ever do it. I'm sure to keep on coming until you treat me right—or send me away. And I don't believe that would stop me.”
“Aren't you a little of an Irishman, Mr. Bedloe?”
“Why?”
She smiled, with all a woman's pleasure in conquest. “Why haven't you told me any of these things before?”
“How could I? Now, Madge, any minute somebody's likely to come in. I want you to tell me—can you ever get away evenings?”
“Of course I can, if I want to.”
“To-morrow?”
“Why?”
“There's going to be a dance in the pavilion at St. Paul's Park. Do you ride a wheel?” She nodded.
“It's a first-rate ride over there. There's a moon now, and the roads are fine. Have you ever been there?”