Daisy Nixon filled the cups, passed one to her companion, and, gingerly lifting to her lips the one she had retained, tasted it.
"Ugh! it's like medicine," she said; "tell the man to bring some cre-eam, quick."
Sir William Ware was so elated at the smooth and rapid development of his unique mating experiment that he could have shouted with glee. It was barely twenty-five minutes since he had first linked arms with this tip-top bit of girlhood and led her in out of the street. Now she was passing his coffee unprompted. Next, ordering him to have in the cream. If domestic relations continued to grow in this splendid, almost spontaneous manner, she would be jolly well ready for the marriage ceremony, almost, by the time this bit of a supper was over. And, if she was ready, Jove! he would be, too. It was magic, it was ripping, the way in which his synthesized connubial Galatea had taken upon herself the bloom and body of life! The baronet sat back, his napkin on his knee, contemplating Daisy with an enjoyment more keen than any sensation he could remember in all the conscious years of his half-century and more.
"Shall you like to be Lady Ware?" he said, almost deferentially.
Daisy took a date-stone from her red lips, laid it on the side of her saucer, and leaned forward, knuckles under chin, dimples dancing in and out, eyes flashing with a kind of bright shrewdness.
"I don't know," she said; letting her lashes fall slowly, and putting her head a little on one side.
"I say—stop it!" observed Sir William, so briskly that Daisy sat bolt upright, sobered for a moment; "don't do that, you know—don't flirt, please. I'm not joking. Did you think I was joking, really?"
"Joking about what?" said Daisy, in her direct way; but her eyes twinkled.
"You know jolly well what, you tantalizing little beggar," said Sir William. "Now, do be sensible. Pour me out a drop more coffee, won't you?"
Daisy's round arm and elbow tipped up piquantly as she filled the proffered cup.