'You wicked English boy, to make my father cry,' said she, as soon as her anger allowed her to speak. 'If you were not lame I'd—I'd—I'd hit you.'
I did not move a muscle, but stood lost in a dream of wonder at her amazing loveliness. The fiery flush upon her face and neck, the bewitching childish frown of anger corrugating the brow, the dazzling glitter of the teeth, the quiver of the full scarlet lips above and below them, turned me dizzy with admiration.
Her eyes met mine, and slowly the violet flames in them began to soften. Then they died away entirely as she murmured,
'You wicked English boy, if you hadn't—beautiful—beautiful eyes,
I'd kill you.'
By this time, however, Tom had entirely forgotten his grievance against me, and gazed upon Winifred in a state of drunken wonderment.
'Winifred,' he said, in a tone of sorrowful reproach, 'how dare you speak like that to Master Aylwin, your father's best friend, the only friend your poor father's got in the world, the friend as I give ferret-eyed rabbits to, and tame hares, and beautiful skulls? Beg his pardon this instant, Winifred. Down on your knees and beg my friend's pardon this instant, Winifred.'
The poor little girl stood dazed, and was actually sinking down on her knees on the grass before me.
I cried out in acute distress,
'No, no, no, no, Tom, pray don't let her—dear little girl! beautiful little girl!'
'Very well, Master Aylwin,' said Tom grandly, 'she sha'n't if you don't like, but she shall go and kiss you and make it up.'