There was, by-the-bye, a rumour--I know not how
true--that these two sages were concocting between them, beside their
folios on the Castle of Chapelizod, an interminable history of Ireland.
Devereux was secretly chafed at the sort of invisible, but insuperable
resistance which pretty Lilias Walsingham, as it seemed, unconsciously
opposed to his approaches to a nearer and tenderer sort of trifling.
'The little Siren! there are air-drawn circles round her which I cannot
pass--and why should I? How is it that she interests me, and yet repels
me so easily? And--and when I came here first,' he continued aloud, 'you
were, oh dear! how mere a child, hardly eleven years old. How long I've
known you, Miss Lilias, and yet how formal you are with me.' There was
reproach almost fierce in his eye, though his tones were low and gentle.
'Well!' he said, with an odd changed little laugh, 'you _did_ commit
yourself at first--you spoke against card-playing, and I tell you
frankly I mean to play a great deal more, and a great deal higher than
I've ever done before, and so adieu.'
He did not choose to see the little motion which indicated that she was
going to shake hands with him, and only bowed the lower, and answered
her grave smile, which seemed to say, 'Now, you are vexed,' with another
little laugh, and turned gaily away, and so was gone.
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