Dora’s answer was a laugh—a laugh with a hint of nervousness in it. Perhaps she knew what was in it, for she looked away towards the river.
“Dolly,” he whispered, “shall I go back to Cannes? Shall I?”
Perhaps the audacity of this per saltum advance from the distance of Miss ‘Bellairs’ to the ineffable assumption involved in ‘Dolly’ made the subject of it dumb.
“I will, if you ask me,” he said, us she, was silent for a space.
Then with profile towards him and eyes away, she murmured,
“What would Miss Travers say if you turned back now?”
The mention of Mary did not on this occasion evoke any unseemly words. On the contrary, Charlie smiled. He glanced at his companion. He glanced behind him and round him. Then, drilling his deep design into the semblance of an uncontrollable impulse, he seized Dora’s hand in his and, before she could stir, kissed her cheek.
She leapt to her feet.
“How dare you?” she cried.
“How could I help it?”