“I thought I should never catch you,” she said. “You never walked so fast in your life, I believe, you stupid old fellow. I could n't call out loud, though it is a quiet place, and so I had to begin to run. Goodness! what _would_ Lady Augusta have said if she had seen me flying after you!” And then, stopping all at once, she looked up at him with a wicked little air of saucy daring. “Don't you want to kiss me?” she said. “You may, if you will endeavor to effect it with despatch before somebody comes.” She was obliged to resign herself to her fate then. For nearly two minutes she found herself rendered almost invisible, and neither of them spoke. Then half released, she lifted her face to look at him, and there were tears on her eyelashes, and in her voice, too, though she was trying very hard to smile. “Poor old fellow,” she half whispered. “Has it seemed long since you kissed me last?” He caught her to his breast again in his old, impetuous fashion. “Long!” he groaned. “It has seemed so long that there have been times when it has almost driven me mad. O Dolly! Dolly!” She let him crush her in his arms and kiss her again, and she nestled against his shoulder for a minute, and, putting her warm little gloved hand up to his face, gave it a tiny, loving squeeze. But of course that could not last long. Miss Macdowlas's companion might be kissed in the dusk two or three times, but, genteelly sequestered as was the road leading to Brabazon Lodge, some stray footman or housemaid might appear on the scene, from some of the neighboring establishments, at any moment, so she was obliged to draw herself away at last. “There!” she said, “you must let me take your arm and walk on now, and you must tell me all about things. I have a few minutes to spare, and I have _so_ wanted you,” heaving a weary little sigh, and holding his arm very tightly indeed. “Dolly,” he asked, abruptly, “are you sure of that?” The other small hand clasped itself across his sleeve in an instant. “Sure?” she answered. “Sure that I have wanted you? I have been nearly _dying_ for you!” with some affectionate extravagance. “Are you sure,” he put it to her, “quite sure that you have not sometimes forgotten me for an hour or so?” “No,” she answered, indignantly, “not for a single second;” which was a wide assertion. “Not,” he prompted her, somewhat bitterly, “when the MacDowlas gives dinner-parties, and you find yourself a prominent feature, 'young person,' as you are? Not when you wear the white merino, and 'heavy swells' admire you openly?” “No,” shaking her head in stout denial of the imputation. “Never. I think about you from morning until night; and the fact is,” in a charming burst of candor, “I actually wake in the night and think about you. There! are you satisfied now?” It would have been impossible to remain altogether unconsoled and unmoved under such circumstances, but he could not help trying her again.