“I'm quite sure that I don't deserve to,” he answered, still looking down at her.
“If you did deserve to, being a woman, I probably shouldn't let you,” said Victoria, flashing a look upwards; “as it is, you may.”
His face lighted, but she halted in the grass, with her hands behind her, and stared at him with a puzzled expression.
“I'm sure you're a dangerous man,” she declared. “First you take in poor little Hastings, and now you're trying to take me in.”
“Then I wish I were still more dangerous,” he laughed, “for apparently I haven't succeeded.”
“I want to talk to you seriously,” said Victoria; “that is the only reason I'm permitting you to drive me home.”
“I am devoutly thankful for the reason then,” he said,—“my horse is tied in the field.”
“And aren't you going to say good-by to your host and hostess?”
“Hostess?” he repeated, puzzled.
“Hostesses,” she corrected herself, “Mrs. Pomfret and Alice. I thought you had eyes in your head,” she added, with a fleeting glance at them.