He lay over in the grass and pulled several stalks. Then he lifted his eyes beseechingly to hers.
"Will you let me?"
Daphne hid her hands. He drew himself to her side and took one of them forcibly from her lap.
With a slow, caressing movement he began to braid the grass ring around her finger--in and out, around and around, his fingers laced with her fingers, his palm lying close upon her palm, his blood tingling through the skin upon her blood. He made the braiding go wrong, and took it off and began over again. Two or three times she drew a deep breath, and stole a bewildered look at his face, which was so close to hers that his hair brushed it--so close that she heard the quiver of his own breath. Then all at once he folded his hands about hers with a quick, fierce tenderness, and looked up at her. She turned her face aside and tried to draw her hand away. His clasp tightened. She snatched it away, and got up with a nervous laugh.
"Look at the butterflies! Aren't they pretty?"
He sprang up and tried to seize her hand again.
"You shan't go home yet!" he said, in an undertone.
"Shan't I?" she said, backing away from him. "Who's going to keep me?"
"I am," he said, laughing excitedly and following her closely.
"My father's coming!" she cried out as a warning.