“I tried not to,” I replied.
“And she was angry.”
“She did her best to be angry.”
“She was.”
“Till the next morning,” I answered.
“And then you begged her pardon?”
“I did nothing of the kind. I was not so young as all that.”
“But, at least, you were sorry?” Millicent suggested.
“Not from that day to this,” I replied. “It was too perfect.”
Millicent moved her chair a little further, and, as she did so--it might
have been done purposely--you never can tell with Millicent--her foot
touched mine gently; and as it remained there a moment, I felt more like
Bassishaw than I would have cared to admit. She has since told me, I
don’t mind saying, that I have good eyes; be that as it may, the
mischief in her own was for a second tempered to an expression that--was
nobody’s business but mine. I felt tempted to forswear my theory, and to
regret the presence of an audience.
She rose gaily.
“This is all very well,” she said, “but it is a bad thing to have the
fire at your back. Be good enough to put the screen up, Arthur.”
Arthur did so.
“But the story,” Caroline persisted impatiently--she wanted to get to
the reconciliation with tears. “How does the story go on?”
“It went on,” I replied, “in much the same way. It is not quite finished
yet.”
She looked a virtuous reproof.
“I am surprised, Rollo,” she said, “that you should have behaved in so
indiscreet a fashion. I think that on that occasion it was just as well
there _was_ nobody there. _I_ should be exceedingly sorry to witness any
such proceeding. It would make me extremely uncomfortable.”