"I have a valet and three addresses," he said, "and only pay my tailor once a year…. In most countries that gives one the standing of a gentleman."
She bit her lip and glanced quickly at him. His pulses, already stirred by wine and the intrigue of a midnight amour, leaped into a fever at the glimpse of burning eyes and lips that slightly trembled. He placed his hand on her shoulder and drew her face towards his.
"Why," she said hesitatingly—"why do you want to kiss me?"
Montague smiled. "The eternal question, Vera. It has trapped more men into proposals than all the wiles of a generation of fond mothers."
"But you don't love me," she said, her hands pressed against the lapels of his jacket in self-defense.
"On such a night as this," he said, "who could help but love you?"
"Dennis, please let me go—I mean it—I shall call for help."
His brow contracted with a sudden frown. "You come here," he said, "at midnight—into a deserted conservatory … with me. Then, because I do what you knew from the start I would do, you suddenly decide to play 'Little Miss Prude from the Convent.'"
"I—I should not have come. I did not want to, Dennis."
His lips curved into a smile. "Then why did you?"