'And that I think's a reason fair To drink and fill again.'"
He flung back his head with a rollicking laugh over the refrain. Ghosts there should not be at Berrington Manor.
"Let's to the Hall," he cried, with an oath. "There's good wine, good company, and pretty faces there, if Phil Berkeley's to be believed. He vows Morry's sister's a jewel fit for a king's crown. You'll be your father's son where a pair of pretty eyes are to be toasted, eh, boy? Ha! ha!"
But Michael did not reply, though his own eyes were grim for those of a youth who went a-wooing.
"I protest, Mistress Gabrielle, it is wanton cruelty of you to bury yourself alive in this dreary hole when all London is in darkness awaiting its sun of beauty to shine on it." Gabrielle laughed, a clear, little contemptuous laugh, which cut crisply through Lord Denningham's languorous tones.
"Of a truth I'm sorry for London, my lord," said she shortly, "since it must be a small place for one such light to be sufficient for its illumination, but I'd be sorrier for myself if I were there."
"You've never tried, my sweet princess," he retorted, with lazy ardour and a bold stare at the charms which the simplicity of a white gown and posy of primroses, nestling in the soft laces at her breast, set off to advantage. "You don't know the delights of conquest. Why, every beau in town would be at your feet, and every belle would be wanting to scratch your pretty eyes out. What could woman want more?"
"I can scarce be woman yet," she answered, laughing in spite of obvious annoyance at his glances, "for I should need much more. My woods and my primroses for instance."
Her eyes grew dreamy over a memory. Lord Denningham grinned as he slowly took a pinch of snuff.
"Even Arcadia needs the shepherd's flute--or the lover's whisper," said he. "You must show me your woods to-morrow, and teach me that primrose-plucking is more entertaining than rout or race-course. I vow I'm ready to learn--and be convinced--by such a mistress."
The note of passion running through the thinly-veiled sarcasm sent the rosy blushes to her cheeks, but her white brow was set in a wrinkle of frowns.
"Nay, my lord," she returned coldly. "You're past conversion, and my woods are no more for you than I am for your gay London. I want neither lovers nor racketings."