"All right, then." And the little girl stood at attention, very prim, apparently very watchful, toes touching the line.
The nature of Benjamin Blair was very direct. The first time he passed, he dropped the handkerchief and proceeded calmly on his journey. His back toward her, the little girl turned and gave a surreptitious glance behind; then quickly shifted to her original position, a look of innocence upon her face. Straight ahead went Ben around the circle—that contained hot irons, or snakes, or something—back to his starting-point, touched the small fragment of femininity upon the shoulder gingerly, as though afraid she would fracture.
"Here's your handkerchief," he said, stooping to recover the bit of linen. "You're it."
"Oh, dear!" she said, in mock despair; "you dropped it the first time, didn't you?"
Ben agreed to the statement.
An unaccountable lull followed. In it he caught a curious sidelong glance from the brown eyes under the drooping lashes.
"I didn't suppose you'd do that the first time," said the little girl. "Papa never does."
The observation seemed irrelevant to Ben Blair, at least inadequate to halt the game; but he made no comment.
Again there was a lull.
"Well," suggested Florence, and a tinge of red surged beneath the soft brown skin.