What do you say
to that, Peter?"
Peter flushed.
"I suppose you mean--Jenny Dumbarton," he said slowly. "Of course, she's
a very dear, pretty, little thing. But do you know why I first took to
her?" He looked defiantly at his companion.
"No."
"Because--she's rather like you. She's your colour--she has your
hair--she's a way with her that's something like you. When I'm dancing
with her, if I shut my eyes, I can sometimes fancy--it's you!"
"Oh, goodness!" cried Helena, burying her face in her hands. It was a cry
of genuine distress. Peter was silent a moment. Then he came closer.
"Just look at me, please, Helena!"
She raised her eyes unwillingly. In the boy's beautiful clear-cut
face the sudden intensity of expression compelled her--held her
guiltily silent.
"Once more, Helena"--he said, in a voice that shook--"is there no
chance for me?"
"No, no, dear Peter!" she cried, stretching out her hands to him. "Oh, I
thought that was all over. I sent for you because I wanted just to say to
you--don't trifle!--don't shilly-shally! I know Jenny Dumbarton a little.
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