Decidedly Winifred was a practical
person and he was a dreamer. The pastry he dared not touch--being a
genius--but he was charmed at the gaiety with which Winifred crammed
cake after cake into her rosebud of a mouth. What an enchanting
creature! how bravely she covered up her life's tragedy!
The thought made him glance at her velvet band--it was broader than
ever.
'He has beaten you again!' he murmured furiously. Her joyous eyes
saddened, she hung her head, and her fingers crumbled the cake. 'What is
his pretext?' he asked, his blood burning.
'Jealousy,' she whispered.
His blood lost its glow, ran cold. He felt the bully's blows on his own
skin, his romance turning suddenly sordid. But he recovered his
courage. He, too, had muscles. 'But I thought he just missed seeing me
kiss your hand.'
She opened her eyes wide. 'It wasn't you, you darling old dreamer.'
He was relieved and disturbed in one.
'Somebody else?' he murmured. Somehow the vision of the player-fellow
came up.
She nodded. 'Isn't it lucky he has himself drawn a red-herring across
the track? I didn't mind his blows--_you_ were safe!' Then, with one of
her adorable transitions, 'I am dreaming of another ice,' she cried with
roguish wistfulness.
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