“There’s a nice little cosy corner at the stern,” she whispered to Rupert, and gave him a friendly dig in the ribs. Fortunately Muriel was out of earshot.
To the stern, therefore, he led his companion when at length they were left alone, and here on a comfortable sofa they seated themselves. Nor did he allow many moments to pass before he attempted to resume the intimacy of the afternoon. Muriel, however, was self-conscious, and as he kissed her she gently thrust him away from her.
“Don’t,” she muttered. “Please don’t, Rupert, dear.”
There was a tone of anguish in her voice, for at the dawn of love a woman feels terror such as no man can understand. Instinctively, and without definite reasoning, she dreads the consequences of her actions; and whereas a man’s new love is glorious with the exultation of careless conquest, a woman’s is tender with the vision of uncomprehended pain to be. At the lightest touch of a new lover’s lips she catches sight of her whole destiny; and where a man rejoices, a woman quakes.
Rupert was abashed, and, releasing her from his grasp, stared before him into the darkness, while Muriel waited for him to make her quake again: it was a wonderful sensation.
“Why shouldn’t I kiss you, Muriel?” he asked. “You love me, you know you do.” He turned to her, and his face came close to hers. “You do love me, don’t you?”
For answer she ran her fingers through his hair and looked long at him. In the dim light he could see that she was searching his face as though endeavouring to find in it the assurance her womanhood required. He hoped that her hands were not untidying him beyond quick repair: he very much disliked having his hair ruffled.
Again he put his arms about her, and now she did not resist. Her eyes closed, and as in a dream she gave herself up to the emotion of the moment. In some miraculous manner it seemed to her Rupert had developed, and his arms that now enfolded her were suddenly endowed with celestial strength. It was as though by loving her he had identified himself with a force far greater than his own; and even the broken words which he uttered seemed to have a more profound meaning. She forgot that she had read such words in many a short story, many a novel; they sounded beautiful to her; they came to her ears with all the enchantment of things never before spoken in the whole history of the world.
“O Rupert,” she murmured, “do I mean all that to you?”
“You mean heaven and hell to me, Muriel,” he said, dramatically.