But, alas for her determination, as she replied her eyes met those of Moore; the twinkling merriment which she read in her lover's gaze was too much for her gravity, and so, in spite of her effort to keep a sober face, she smiled back at him, and if it was not the love-light that shone beneath her long lashes, it was a something so entirely like it that a wiser man than the young Irishman would have been pardonable for making such a mistake.
"Oh," he said, lovingly triumphant, "what do you think about it now?"
"Well," said Bessie, in quick equivocation, "I wanted to smile then. You are very ridiculous, Mr. Moore."
"You make me so, Bessie."
"What did I tell you about that name?" she demanded, rising to her feet.
"I forgot, Bessie," he replied defiantly.
"If that is the case you shall have the opportunity to recall it to mind," said she, sternly, at the same time moving towards the door. But her foot caught in her skirt and as she recovered her balance with a little cry there was an ominous sound of ripping plainly heard.
"There," cried Bessie in a rage, "I 've stepped on a ruffle. It is all your fault, Tom Moore."
"Of course it is," replied the poet. "It always is, as we both know."
Bessie, meanwhile, had investigated the extent of the damage she had sustained. The lace ruffle on her underskirt had been torn off for at least two feet. The thing was utterly ruined, and, gritting her teeth as she realized this, Bessie tried to tear off the loose piece. This, however, proved to be beyond her strength, so, abandoning the attempt with an exclamation of rage, she stamped her foot in anger.