He said: "Essie, what would you do—what would you do if she told you that?"
She turned sharply towards him. "Do?" cried Essie. He could see how she quivered. "I tell you what I'd do! I'd take my hand and I'd give her such a slap in the face as she wouldn't forget in a hurry, I know!"
He laughed despite himself. But he cried: "If it was true, Essie? If it was true?"
"Give her another!" said Essie. "Such a one!"
Her funny little ways! He gave an exclamation and caught her to him. She was rigid in her indignant heat. He clasped her and turned her face to his. "Oo-oo!" cried Essie, "Oo-oo!" and relaxed, and snuggled, and put her mouth to his. He laughed freely—bitterly—recklessly. How treat her as others than her class should be treated? Why treat her so? He cried: "Essie, you're impossible!" and squeezed her in reproof of her and in helpless desire of her, and cried: "Essie! Essie! Essie!"
She laughed and clung to him; laughed and kissed him kiss for kiss. She said presently, only murmuring, so close their lips: "Wouldn't I just though! Hard as I could I'd fetch her such a couple of slaps! Oo-oo! Oh, I say, Arthur! Why, I never heard such things! I never heard such a caution as she must have been! Jus' because you're quiet, dear—that's what it was. One of that fast lot. That's what she was. Don't I know them, though!"
He was just holding her, kissing her, laughing at her. Why not? He'd not wrong her till she understood—that was his new assurance. At Whitecliffe he'd take her, and tell her there so that not possibly she'd misunderstand him. Not to deceive her—he'd not deceived her yet.
Swiftly deception came.
"Won't we be happy though!"
"Won't we!" he answered her.