“Why! She’d never think anything of you again, lad! Never mind two old has-beens like us. We don’t count, do we, Major? Don’t you take any notice of us. You kiss your sweetheart good night, like a sensible youngster!” And before I could escape, before either of us had fully realized what this terrible, bellowing, stout, red-faced, eyes-on-stalked, cigar-scented, coarse, horrid old man would take it into his head to say or do next, he had literally pushed us into each other’s arms.
I don’t know whether it was for a minute or for half a second that I was given over to feeling the true horror of this position; to wondering what on earth my make-believe fiancé meant me to do about it—what he meant to do.
Then he—the Governor—decided the matter for me.
With the suddenest of movements he ducked swiftly forward and bent, without further look or word, to kiss me. I was too petrified to draw back even the fraction of an inch from the touch of his lips; it brushed by, scarcely stirring on my cheek, to fall almost roughly on the ripple of dark hair above my ear.
Then he bolted to the door and held it open for my headlong exit from the den.
To the sound of an explosive “That’s more like it!” from Uncle Waters. “You surely never——” (Slam! from the door) I tore across the hall. I didn’t pause for any more good nights in the drawing-room. I rushed upstairs to my bedroom.
Here I flung myself down into one of the rosy-chintz chairs by the open window and gasped while I tried to collect my whirling wits.
* * * * *
What had happened? What was he—that young man—doing to allow anything to happen? His “official” fiancée? Was this what he meant by “official”—it wasn’t what I meant, and I would let him know that. I was furious with him—His uncle’s fault?—Yes! But he ought to have managed so that That wasn’t thrust upon me like this.