"Dorothy," he said, "I'm waiting for you." He took the tray from her and
rested it on the banisters. "Your father and I have talked over all the
business. He's got the impression that I'm one of the most generous fellows
in the world. I intend to leave him in that delusion for the present. Now
may I speak to him about something else, Dorothy? Have I not waited long
enough for my heart's desire?"

"Take care," said Dorothy softly,--"thee'll upset the tea-cups."

"Confound the tea-cups!" He stooped to place the irrelevant tray on the
floor, but now Dorothy was halfway down the staircase. He caught her on the
landing, and taking both her hands drew her down on the step beside him.

"Dorothy, this is the second time you've taken advantage of my trusting
nature. This time you shall be punished. You needn't try to hide your face,
you little traitor. There's no repentance in you!"

"If I'm to be punished there's no need of repentance."

"Oh, is that your Quaker doctrine? Dorothy, do you know, I've never heard
you speak my name, except once, and then you were angry with me."

"When was that?"

"The night I caught you at the gate. You said, 'I had rather have one of
those dumb brutes for company than thee, Walter Evesham.' You said it in
the fiercest little voice. Even the 'thee' sounded as if you hated me."

"I did," said Dorothy promptly. "I had reason to."