"Seventeen," said Daisy.
"Dear me!" Ware brought his cane around, stood it before him, and crossed his hands on it. "Shockingly bad guessing. However, I am pleased more than I can say to know that so wise and mature a little woman is only seventeen—the sweetest age of maidenhood. And your name—do you realize we've spent a whole hour or more together, in the most intimate way, and I don't even know your name? If I were to guess at that, I should say 'Daffodil'. You dance so, if you know what I mean."
"Well," she said, "you're not so very far off it. It's Daisy."
"Bravo!" Sir William struck his cane delightedly on the pavement; "I knew—that is, I almost knew—it would be a blossom of some sort. Well, little Daisy of the West," he hooked his cane on his arm, removed his hat, and stepped forward: while Daisy, though tensed into bright vigilance against any momentary irresponsibility of the heady good-bye time, dimpled up in a mischievously tempting way, "you won't forget what we've been talking about—shall you?"
If these words, uttered softly as they were, had been followed by an attempt to take her hand, Daisy would have drawn away. But there was no such movement. Sir William, although he had transferred his hat to the arm that held the cane, merely thrust his free hand into the side-pocket of his coat.
Daisy deepened her smile and raised her face a little more, until the light of the street-lamp was reflected in tiny elfin sparklets in each of her eyes. Her lips drew to red fulness, then parted a little. Her cheeks gathered piquantly. After a moment, her lashes fell and a little hand, with irrepressibly coquettish purpose, wandered out from behind her, felt its way up to the brooch at the breast of her blouse, paused there, then was extended toward Sir William.
The baronet's hand came out of his pocket. It did not meet hers, however. It went up before him, palm outward. He smiled at her over the tips of the fingers in a queer, distant way.
"My dear," he said (and his words were a puzzle to Daisy), "if you were less the woman, I should perhaps like you less. But don't let the thing overpower you."
With this, Sir William Ware set his hat on his head, swung his cane, and flicked a bit of pebble off the pavement.
"Au revoir, little woman," he said, still ignoring the hand she had extended toward him. With this, and raising his hat quietly, he turned and walked away.