“Perhaps,” was the reply. “To me it seems a very foolish game, and I think it was poor taste on Mrs. Winthrop’s part.”
“Dear me!” thought the girl, “what kind of a fish have I caught here?” There was something strangely familiar about the voice, but she could not place it. She had met so many men in the last week or two.
“Sir,” she said, “I fear me that you lack a little of that holiday glee which is necessary to such occasion as this. I would that I could sing a song to cheer your moping spirit—”
‘Nymphs and shepherds come away,
For this is Flora’s holiday!’
Then, leaning a little nearer yet, “Come, sir, you must make an effort.”
“What shall I do?”
“You must manage to throw yourself into a state of rapture. You must tell me that you adore me. You must say that my blue eyes make dim the vault of heaven——”
“But I can hardly see your eyes.”
“You should not expect to see them. Have you not been told that Love is blind?”