"But you mustn't, Roland, really you mustn't. You shouldn't speak of mother like that; you know how good she's been to us."
"Oh, yes, I know it, of course I do. But can't you see what it was like last night for me coming back to you, and wanting you, and then to hear only your mother; and by the time she left us alone I had got so bad tempered that——"
"Yes, you weren't very nice, were you?"
And he had begun to pour out a further torrent of explanation when he saw that a sly, mischievous smile was playing round the corners of her mouth and that she was no longer angry.
"Then you'll forgive me?" he said.
"But I don't know about that."
"Oh, but you have, haven't you? I know you have."
She began to remonstrate, to say that she had not forgiven him, that he had been most unkind to her, but she made no resistance when his hand slipped slowly round her neck and turned her face to his. And as he raised it, she pouted ever so slightly her lips towards those that sank to meet them. As their mouths met she passed one hand behind his head and pressed it down to her. It was a long embrace, and when she drew back from it, the lustre of her eyes had grown dimmed and misty.
"You've never kissed me like that before," she said.
"Perhaps I've never really loved you before."