"Tom," she said softly.
Moore showed no sign of having heard her.
"Tom," she said as sweetly as a deliciously modulated voice could sound the word.
Still no reply. She stepped lightly towards him.
"Tom, dear, don't be sulky," she said, laying one hand upon his sturdy shoulder. "Why I care more for your little finger than I ever could for Sir Percival."
"Will you tell him so?" asked Moore, taking her hand as he rose.
This was asking entirely too much and Bessie raised her head very haughtily, indignant that her condescension in making so confidential a statement had led to such an extravagant request.
"Indeed, I will not," she declared, defiantly, returning as she spoke to her chair behind the desk at the front of the schoolroom. Moore followed her and they stood face to face, the desk between them.
"Very well," he said determinedly, "if you won't, I will."
"If you dare, Thomas Moore," cried Bessie, shaking one pink forefinger at the poet, admonishingly. "If you dare!"