A low voice from the arbour called “Kenn!” But I had had enough of gallivanting for one night and I held my way sullenly to the house. Swift feet pattered down the path after me, and presently a little hand fell on my arm. I turned, sulky as a baited bear.
“I am so sorry, Kenn,” said Mistress Antoinette demurely.
My sardonic laughter echoed cheerlessly. “That there is no more mischief to your hand. Oh never fear! You’ll find some other poor breeched gull shortly.”
The brown dovelike eyes of the little rip reproached me.
“’Twill all come right, Kenn. She’ll never think the worse of you for this.”
“I’ll be no more to her than a glove outworn. I have lost the only woman I could ever love, and through my own folly, too.”
“Alackaday, Kenn! Y’ ’ave much to learn about women yet. She will think the more of you for it when her anger is past.”
“Not she. One of your fashionables might, but not Aileen.”
“Pooh! I think better of her than you. She’s not all milk and water. There’s red blood in her veins, man. Spunk up and brazen it out. Cock your chin and whistle it off bravely. Faith, I know better men than you who would not look so doleful over one of ’Toinette Westerleigh’s kisses. If I were a man I would never kiss and be sorry for all the maids in Christendom.”
The saucy piquant tilt to her chin was a sight for the gods to admire.