Bessie, meanwhile, had investigated the extent of the damage she had sustained. The lace ruffle on her underskirt had been torn off for at least two feet. The thing was utterly ruined, and, gritting her teeth as she realized this, Bessie tried to tear off the loose piece. This, however, proved to be beyond her strength, so, abandoning the attempt with an exclamation of rage, she stamped her foot in anger.

"Let me help you," said Moore politely. "No doubt, I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress d.y.k.e."

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I can break the plaguey thing, Mistress d.y.k.e.]

"You are the cause of all the trouble," said Bessie, crossly.

"All the more reason, then, for letting me help you repair the damage.

You can't dance with that trailing in front of you."

Moore took the end of the ruffle which Bessie held out to him, and, securing a firm grip upon it, marched across the room, thus ripping off the entire bottom of the skirt.

"Thank you," said Bessie, more graciously, extending her hand for the torn piece.

Moore shook his head and held the ruffle behind him.

"Give it to me, sir," exclaimed the girl indignantly.

"It is the foam on the wave of loveliness," declared the poet, waving his prize as though it were a pennant, but carefully keeping it out of Bessie's reach.

"You cannot have it, sir," she said, sternly.

"Women are enveloped in mystery," he continued, quite unrebuked, "yards of it. If there is anything I love, it is mystery, so I 'll keep this for myself."

"Why?"

"For a souvenir. Think of the memories a.s.sociated with it, Bessie."

"What good will it be to you?" she asked, rather more pleasantly.

"It would be a great success as a necktie," Moore went on, draping it beneath his chin. "Thusly, for instance, or I might wear it on my arm, or next my heart."

"Give me that ruffle," cried Bessie, s.n.a.t.c.hing at it as she spoke, and by good luck catching it.

"Let go," commanded Moore. "If you don't I 'll kiss your hands for you."

"Oh, no, you won't."

But he did.

"Please," pleaded the girl, not letting go.

"I don't intend to keep it, Bessie, on my word of honor."

Confident that she had secured her object, the girl released the ruffle and stepped back.

"Thank you, Mr. Moore," said she, waiting expectantly.

"Oh, not at all, Mistress d.y.k.e. What are you waiting for?"

"For that."

"But you do not get this, Mistress d.y.k.e."

"But you promised, sir."

"I did not say I would _give it to you_," explained Moore, genially. "I merely promised that I would _not keep_ it. Well, I won't. I happen to have your card in my pocket--it's a wonder it is n't the mitten you have presented me with so often--and this card I shall pin on the ruffle, which I shall then hang on this candelabra, where it will remain until found by some one, and what they will think of you then is beyond my power to imagine."

Moore suited the action to the word as he spoke, and the bundle of frills was securely perched on the candle-rack protruding from the wall a good seven feet from the floor before Bessie fully realized how completely she had been outwitted.

Then she lost her temper entirely.

"You cheat," she cried furiously. "Oh, I should have known better than to trust you."

"Certainly you should," replied the poet, politely agreeing with the irate damsel. "I was surprised myself at the simplicity of your behavior."

"However," she continued, "I shall never believe you again."

"Never?"

"_Never_, Mr. Moore, and I am very angry with you."

"Really?" asked he. "Why, whoever would have suspected it, Bessie?"

"Luckily I can get it without your a.s.sistance," she went on. "You are not half so smart as you imagine."

"Of course not," observed Moore, watching her as she stood on tiptoe and vainly endeavored to reach the cause of all the trouble. "Take care, Bessie, or you 'll tear something else."

The girl was baffled only for the moment, for directly beneath the candelabra stood the desk at which she had been writing a few moments before. As the top, which when open formed the writing table, was let down, it was an easy thing for her to step up on it from the seat of a chair, and then from there to the top of the desk. This was what Bessie did as quickly as was possible, for she was considerably handicapped in her climbing by her long train.

"There is nothing like independence," remarked the poet, observing her with a broad smile, as she performed this manoeuvre and stood in triumph on the desk. "Like marriage, it usually begins with a declaration and ends with a fight. It did in America."

"You imagine you are witty," said Bessie, in icy tones, picking the ruffle from its perch on the candelabra.

Moore stepped quickly forward and shut up the desk. This done he removed the chair by which she had mounted and had her completely at his mercy.

"And you," he said pleasantly, "imagine you are independent."

Bessie turned carefully and discovered her plight with a little exclamation of dismay.

"Put that chair back and open this desk immediately," she commanded sternly.

"The chair is doing very well where it is," replied Moore, calmly sitting down upon it.

Bessie bit her lip in anger.

"It is not customary for a gentleman to sit while a lady remains standing."

"Nor is it usual," answered Moore, "for a lady to climb up on a desk."