“Lady Henge wouldn’t approve of that!” said Camelia, yielding to a closer enfolding, but facilitating it by no gracious droopings.
“Ah, mother loves you,” said Sir Arthur, with a touch of added pride in his capture.
“Does she?” Camelia’s brows lifted a little; the enfolding continuing she was conscious enough of a dart of irritation to wish to add, “I don’t love her!” but after a kiss he released her and she checked the naughty impulse, merely adding, with some perversity, keeping him now at arm’s length though she abandoned her hand for the purpose, “Would you have dared to love me had she not?”
“Camelia, you know that I did.” The perversity had grieved him a little. His clear brown eyes, that always reminded her of a dog’s in their widely opened sincerity, dwelt on her, questioning her intention. “She did not know you, that was all.”
“Nor did you, quite.” Camelia laughed at him gently, and put her hand on his shoulder, half as a reward for the pang, half to still keep him away.
“No, not quite,” Sir Arthur confessed, “though even my ignorance loved you. But you let me know you at last.”
“But what do you know?” Camelia persisted.
“I know my laughing child.”
“Her faults the faults of a child?”
“Has she faults?”