I follow her about, reverently watching her every movement, hanging on her every word—no light task. And my reward? A scant unceremonious "Hallo!" when we meet; a scanter "Night" or "Morning," according to the circumstances, when we part. A brave smile from me and she is gone, an unwitting spectator of a real tragedy.
Up to a few days ago I was content to bear with my lot, but last week I rebelled. It was at a dance, after supper. Daphne had certainly shown a sort of affection for me, motherly rather than otherwise, I think; nevertheless an affection. But then, and not for the first time, I had seen her flirting with another.
I decided to lose my temper. I went into the smoke-room and deliberated very close to the fire. In five minutes I left the room heated.
I found Daphne at once.
"Our dance," I said. "We will sit out."
My manner must have been rather terrifying. At any rate we sat out.
"Daphne," I began, "I am in a mood that brooks no trifling. For weeks I have loved you. You spurn me."
"Oh, Billy, do be sensible," Daphne murmured.
I moderated my tone. "Well, look here," I said, "why are you so cold to me and yet flirt with my cousin? I saw you putting his tie straight and patting his arm just now; and you won't let me even hold your hand. It's pretty hard, Daphne."
She laughed. "My dear Billy—"