Then begging pardon for his pipe and his free-and-easy position, a bachelor habit, as he said, he arose and joined her. Leaning over the back of his chair, as if to overlook the prints, while in reality his admiring eyes wandered alternately and admiringly over her fine glossy hair, the contour of her head, and little white ears (at each of which a rose diamond dangled), and her delicate neck, which rose so nobly from her back and beautifully curved shoulders, he said in a low voice, and with considerable softness of manner, for him at least,-- "'Pon my honour, friend Flora, I believe you really begin to love me, after all." "How do you think so, or why?" she asked, looking half round, with her bewitching eyes full of wonder and amusement. "Because we always quarrel when we meet, and that is called a Scots mode of wooing, isn't it?" "So our nurses used to say, long ago." "And were they right?" "Now, dear Cosmo, let us talk of something else, if you please," she urged pleadingly. "Why so?" "A dangerous topic has a strange fascination for you." "Dangerous?" "Unpleasant, at least," said Flora, pettishly. Cosmo flung the "Eighteen Manœuvres" of Lieutenant-General Dundas very angrily and ignominiously to the extreme end of the library, and folding his arms stood haughtily erect before Flora, whose bright eyes were fixed on his, with a smiling expression of fear and perplexity combined. "Can it be possible," he began, "I ask you, can it be possible, Miss Warrender----" "Oh, you are about to address me officially--well, sir?" "Can it be possible, Flora, that you still love this unknown protégé of my foolish mother--this nameless rascal, who has run away, heaven knows where? By-the-bye, I wonder if Spillsby has overhauled the plate chest since he went!" Flora was silent, but his _brusquerie_ and categorical manner offended her, and filled her eyes with tears. "This weeping is enough," continued the exasperated Cosmo, who, though he had no great regard for Flora, felt his self-esteem--which was not small--most fearfully wounded; "you do love him." "And what if I do?" she asked, very quietly, but withal rather defiantly. "Very fine, Miss Warrender--very fine, 'pon my soul! That old jade, Anne Radcliffe, with her 'Romance of the Forest,' her 'Castles of Athlin and Dunbayne,' and this new Edinburgh fellow, Scott, with his 'Marmion,' and so forth, have perfected your education. Your teaching has been most creditable!" "This taunting manner is not so to you,' replied Flora, resuming her inspection of the book of prints. "Oho! we are in a passion again it seems?" "Far from it, sir--I never was more cool in my life," said she, looking up with a wicked but glorious smile. "And where has this runaway gone? His friends in the servants' hall heard something of him last night or this morning, if I may judge from the pot-house row they made." "He has gone into the army," replied Flora, with a perceptible modulation of voice.