His only chance seemed to be to concentrate fiercely on his game; he beat her—most ungallantly.
She was a little vexed; but after the first blush of chagrin, secretly amused. "Do you go about everything with such deadly earnestness?" she taunted, still breathing quickly from the vigor of the play.
He bit his lips, confused again. "Was I—was I so deadly?"
"Yes; you were." She was almost pouty.
"It's you that have made me deadly," he accused, tentatively.
"I?" She eyed him mischievously from under long lashes. "Before me they had learned to call you 'Hellfire.'"
Harrington flushed at the old sobriquet, that seemed never so inapt as now, and was suddenly angry—with himself—with her. "You have made me deadly—deadly as a cobra," he charged, advancing on her. "I'm in love with you!" He said it savagely. "No doubt about it; I'm in love with you. In just forty hours you've made me want everything just because I want you."
Billie, leaning on her putter, dared to laugh at him—mockingly; but his earnestness would not be mocked. "You were in doubt yesterday," she reminded him.
"I have decided—it is love." He stood frowning.
"And is it much of a calamity to find that you are in love with me?" she twitted.
"The calamity is that it has come so quickly that you won't believe in it at all."
"You are speedy," she admitted, mirthful, yet admiring.
"Speedy! I'm a plunger," Harrington avowed hoarsely.
