“Of course I am.  Don’t you remember you said I was such a little thing when I came out of my woman’s shell?”

“And how have you done it?”

“Grown to please you.”

“Now, if you can do that, you can do anything.”

“And so I would do anything.”

“You would?”

“Honour!”

“Then"...his project recurred to him.  But the incongruity of speaking seriously to Sir Julius struck him dumb.

“Then what?” asked she.

“Then you’re a gallant fellow.”

“That all?”

“Isn’t it enough?”

“Not quite.  You were going to say something.  I saw it in your eyes.”

“You saw that I admired you.”

“Yes, but a man mustn’t admire a man.”

“I suppose I had an idea you were a woman.”

“What! when I had the heels of my boots raised half an inch,” Sir Julius turned one heel, and volleyed out silver laughter.

“I don’t come much above your shoulder even now,” she said, and proceeded to measure her height beside him with arch up-glances.

“You must grow more.”

“’Fraid I can’t, Dick!  Bootmakers can’t do it.”

“I’ll show you how,” and he lifted Sir Julius lightly, and bore the fair gentleman to the looking-glass, holding him there exactly on a level with his head.  “Will that do?”

“Yes!  Oh but I can’t stay here.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Why can’t I?”

He should have known then—­it was thundered at a closed door in him, that he played with fire.  But the door being closed, he thought himself internally secure.

Their eyes met.  He put her down instantly.

Sir Julius, charming as he was, lost his vogue.  Seeing that, the wily woman resumed her shell.  The memory, of Sir Julius breathing about her still, doubled the feminine attraction.

“I ought to have been an actress,” she said.

Richard told her he found all natural women had a similar wish.

“Yes!  Ah! then! if I had been!” sighed Mrs. Mount, gazing on the pattern of the carpet.

He took her hand, and pressed it.

“You are not happy as you are?”

“No.”

“May I speak to you?”

“Yes.”

Her nearest eye, setting a dimple of her cheek in motion, slid to the corner toward her ear, as she sat with her head sideways to him, listening.  When he had gone, she said to herself:  “Old hypocrites talk in that way; but I never heard of a young man doing it, and not making love at the same time.”

Their next meeting displayed her quieter:  subdued as one who had been set thinking.  He lauded her fair looks.

“Don’t make me thrice ashamed,” she petitioned.

But it was not only that mood with her.  Dauntless defiance, that splendidly befitted her gallant outline and gave a wildness to her bright bold eyes, when she would call out:  “Happy? who dares say I’m not happy?  D’you think if the world whips me I’ll wince?  D’you think I care for what they say or do?  Let them kill me! they shall never get one cry out of me!” and flashing on the young man as if he were the congregated enemy, add:  “There! now you know me!”—­that was a mood that well became her, and helped the work.  She ought to have been an actress.