She flashed him a sidelong glance, arch and rallying.
"You are melancholy, sir - a poor compliment," she told him.
But do not misunderstand her. Hers was an almost childish coquetry,
inevitable fruit of her intense femininity, craving ever the worship
of the sterner sex and the incense of its flattery. And Samoval,
after all, young, noble, handsome, with a half-sinister reputation,
was something of a figure of romance, as a good many women had
discovered to their cost.
He fingered his snowy stock, and bent upon her eyes of glowing
adoration. "Dear Lady O'Moy," his tenor voice was soft and soothing
as a caress, "I sigh to think that one so adorable, so entirely made
for life's sunshine and gladness, should have cause for a moment's
uneasiness, perhaps for secret grief, at the thought of the peril of
her brother."
Her glance clouded under this reminder. Then she pouted and made a
little gesture of impatience. "Dick is not in peril," she answered.
"He is foolish to remain so long in hiding, and of course he will
have to face unpleasantness when he is found. But to say that he is
in peril is . . . just nonsense. Terence said nothing of peril.
He agreed with me that Dick will probably be sent home.
Pages:
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101
102
103
104