We have been
at it ever since we met, and it profits nothing to our friendship."
"With all my heart," he exclaimed, taking her hand and pressing it with
light fingers.
She drew it away sharply.
"Do you think that a fitting way to begin?"
"Your pardon," he said softly; "I fear I did not think."
She looked at him with quick scrutiny.
"We islanders are not given to impulse, Sir Aymer, and do not trust it
deeply. I forgive you--but . . . not again."
"By St. Denis! I seem to blunder always," he said sadly. "I please
you in nothing and am ever at fault."
"You are unjust to yourself," she protested. "You please me in much,
and . . . you ought to know it;" then she blushed. . . "Let us go on
the terrace," and hurried across. . . "Now talk to me . . . not about
me," she said rather curtly, as she sat down.
De Lacy was growing used to these swift shifts of humor, these flashes
of tenderness, veering instantly to aloofness, and then back to a
half-confidential camaraderie, that was alluringly delicious, yet
irritatingly unsatisfying. At first he had tried to force the
situation to his own liking,--to break through her moods and effect an
atmosphere more equable,--but she soon had taught him the folly of it,
and never failed to punish when he forgot.
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