II
“You didn’t mind?” asked Constance when Bruce got his car under way.
“You mean do I mind driving you out? Please don’t make me say how great the pleasure is!”
“You’re poking fun at me; you always do!”
“Never! Why, if I followed my inclinations I’d come trotting up to your house every day. But it wouldn’t do. You know that!”
“But I wouldn’t want you to do that—not unless you——”
There was a bridge to cross and the pressure of traffic at the moment called for care in negotiating it.
“What were you saying?” he asked as they turned off the brilliantly lighted boulevard. The town lay behind and they moved through open country.
“You know,” she said, “I gave you the sign that I wanted to be friends. I had a feeling you knew I needed——”
“What?” he demanded, curious as to the development of her technic.
“Oh, just a little attention! I’ve tried in every way to tell you that I’m horribly lonely.”
“But you oughtn’t to be!” he said, vaguely conscious that they were repeating themselves.
“Oh, I know what you think! You think I ought to be very content and happy. But happiness isn’t so easy! We don’t get it just by wishing.”
“I suppose it’s the hardest thing in the world to find,” he assented.
It was now quite dark and the stars hung brilliant in the cloudless heavens. In her fur coat, with a smart toque to match, Constance had not before seemed so beguiling. His meeting with her in the lonely road with George Whitford and her evident wish not to be seen that day by Franklin Mills or the members of his riding party had rather shaken his first assumption that she could be classified as a harmless flirt. Tonight he didn’t care particularly. If Franklin Mills’s daughter-in-law wanted to flirt with him he was ready to meet her halfway.
“It’s strange, but you know I’m not a bit afraid of you. And the other evening when the rest of us couldn’t do a thing with Leila she chose you to take her home. You have a way of inspiring confidence. Shep picks you out, when he hardly knows you, for confidential talks. I’ve been trying to analyze your—fascinations.”
“Oh, come now! Your husband thought I might help him in a small perplexity—purely professional. Nothing to that! And your young sister-in-law was cross at the rest of you that day at Mrs. Torrence’s and out of pique chose me to take her home.”
“But I trust you!”
“Maybe you shouldn’t!”
“Well, that afternoon you caught me out here with Mr. Whitford I knew you wouldn’t tell on me. George was a trifle nervous about it. I told him you were the soul of discretion.”
“But—I didn’t see you! I didn’t see you at all! I’m blind in both eyes and I can be deaf and dumb when necessary!”
“Oh, I knew you wouldn’t rush over town telling on me! It’s really not that! It’s because I knew you wouldn’t that I’m wondering what—what—it is that makes even your acquaintances feel that they can rely on you. You know you’re quite a wonderful person. Leila and Millicent were talking about you only yesterday. Not schoolgirl twaddle, but real appreciation!”
“That’s consoling! I’m glad of their good opinion. But you—what did you say?”
“Oh, I said I thought you were disagreeable and conceited and generally unpleasant!” She turned toward him with her indolent laugh. “You know I wouldn’t say anything unkind of you.” This in so low a tone that it was necessary for him to bend his head to hear. His cheek touched the furry edge of her hat thrillingly.
“It seems strange, our being together this way,” she said. “I wish we hadn’t a destination. I’d like to go right on—and on——”
“That would be all right as long as the gas held out!”
“You refuse to take me seriously!”
“I seem doomed to say the wrong thing to you! You’ll have to teach me how to act and what to say.”
“But I’d rather be the pupil! There are many things you could teach me!”
“Such as——”
“There’s always love!” she replied softly, lingering upon the word; and again it was necessary to bend down to hear. She lifted her face; he felt rather than saw her eyes meeting his. Her breath, for a fleeting instant on his cheek, caused him to give hurried consideration to the ancient question whether a woman who is willing should be kissed or whether delicate ethical questions should outweigh the desirability of the kiss prospective. He kissed her—first tentatively on the cheek and then more ardently on the lips. She made no protest; he offered no apology. Both were silent for some time. When she spoke it was to say, with serene irrelevance:
“How smoothly your car runs! It increases my respect for the Plantagenet.”
“Oh, it’s very satisfactory; some of Bud’s claims for it are really true!”
Bruce was relieved; but he was equally perplexed. It was an ungallant assumption that any man might, in like circumstances, kiss Constance Mills. On the other hand it eased his conscience to find that she evidently thought so little of it. She had been quite willing to be kissed.... She was a puzzling person, this young woman.