Meanwhile, as Una, too faint to think of what had passed, was lying back, with closed eyes and panting breath, the two or three minutes during which she was left alone seemed to her endless. Would Amethyst never come?
Suddenly an arm was put round her, and a voice whispered tenderly.
“Una? What, taken bad, my poor little girl? Never mind, it’s only old Tony—you know I always take care of my little wifie.”
The words penetrated to Una’s swimming brain. To drop her head on his shoulder, and rest in his arms! How could she help it! But his last word, the pet name that had been the joy and the sting of her old relation to him, spoken in that half-caressing, half-jocose accent, roused in her the passion that was so much more than the equivalent of jesting sentiment.
“How dare you make jokes, now?” she said, panting, as she started to her feet.
“Don’t you know that I daren’t do anything else?” cried Major Fowler, suddenly and savagely, his eyes opening wide upon her with new force and fervour. “But this once more—Una—kiss me!”
“Oh—God help me!” gasped Una; and she tore herself out of his arms, and fell up against Amethyst, who came running out on to the balcony and caught her, guiding her as she sank to the ground.
There was instantly a bustle and confusion, and the balcony was full of figures,—Lady Haredale, Miss Grattan, and Sylvester, who came back with the remedies he had been to seek. He held the bowl of ice, while Amethyst dipped her handkerchief into it to bathe Una’s face, and then, as she revived, he helped Sir Richard to lift her on to a couch.
“She’s coming round,” said Major Fowler. “Poor child, the room was hot—”
Amethyst turned and faced him, as it seemed to the newly enlightened Sylvester, like a flame.