Her eyes lighted, but with mirth. Laughing, she chose a little bunch of the lilies and worked them into my coat.
"Richard, you silly goose!" she said; "I dote upon seeing you in a temper."
I stood between anger and God knows what other feelings, now starting away, now coming back to her. But I always came back.
"You have ever said you would marry an earl, Dolly," I said sadly.
"I believe you do not care for any of us one little bit."
She turned away, so that for the moment I could not see her face, then looked at me with exquisite archness over her shoulder. The low tones of her voice were of a richness indescribable. 'Twas seldom she made use of them.
"You will be coming to Oxford, Richard."
"I fear not, Dolly," I replied soberly. "I fear not, now. Mr. Carvel is too feeble for me to leave him."
At that she turned to me, another mood coming like a gust of wind on the
Chesapeake.
"Oh, how I wish they were all like you!" she cried, with a stamp of her foot. "Sometimes I despise gallantry. I hate the smooth compliments of your macaronies. I thank Heaven you are big and honest and clumsy and—"
"And what, Dorothy?" I asked, bewildered.