"It may."
"You can't tell unless you give a fellow a chance," he said amorously, as his arm, extended behind her, somewhat unnecessarily, to put aside a bough, remained there. "Ulrica!" he murmured.
"Mr. Gage!"
"Percival—Percy," he suggested with empressement. "Ulrica, time's short, so don't let's quibble about trifles. You're the loveliest girl I've ever set eyes on," he continued with glib passion, "and I'm desperately in love with you. I've been dying to tell you so all the time, but never could till this blessed chance came along. Ulrica, say you're a little fond of me, in return."
"Mr. Gage!" Ulrica's expression was compounded of indignation, scorn and amusement. But perhaps the last was the only sentiment that was genuine. "It is not necessary," she protested, "to overdo the part like this."
"The part?"
"Lady Ormstork's little scheme," she said coolly. "You need not take the trouble to make it quite so life-like."
"Oh, it's no trouble," he assured her promptly. "It is a pleasure."
"I understood," she observed laughingly, "that the idea was to put it into Quorn's head that he ought to be jealous."
"That's it," Peckover replied readily. "And I'm doing my very best to give him cause for jealousy."