For the advancing rider was coming along at something like a hard gallop, which was no pace at which to push a horse on a sweltering day like this. Then Hermia began a little piece of acting. She went into the house, and arranging herself on an old wicker couch covered with a leopard skin rug, began to read.
“Missis—Baas riding this way. Tink it Baas Spence.” This from the grinning woolly head of Tickey, inserted through the open doorway. Hermia rose, stretched herself, and the book still in her hand came and stood in the doorway. Then she stretched herself again and thus he found her.
“Why, Justin? Who would have thought of seeing you?” This with round, astonished eyes.
“But—aren’t you glad to, dearest?” He was looking her up and down, a tremor of love in his voice, a world of hungry passionate adoration in his gaze.
“You know I am, dear love. Come inside.”
She had put out her hand to him, and he, still holding it, needed no second bidding. Once within, however, he seized her splendid form—its lines the more seductive through the thin, summer transparency of her light attire—in a strong and passionate embrace.
“Justin, Justin, let me go!” she urged. “Really, you are getting perfectly unmanageable.” And she accompanied her words with a warning gesture towards the door of the inner room. The young man laughed aloud.
“No fear,” he said. “You’re all alone again as usual.”
“How do you know that?”
“Never mind how. I do know, and it wasn’t you who told me. But”—becoming suddenly reproachful—“why didn’t you?”