He seized her small wrists and drew her toward him slowly. She struggled fiercely at first, but then, when her face was close to his, yielded suddenly and returned his kiss.
“Now don’t you love me, Stacey?” she murmured.
“No!” he cried, releasing her. “Nor you me!”
She rose and smoothed her hair.
“You look precisely like a Tanagra,” he said admiringly.
“If you say anything more of that sort,” she burst out, “I shall hate you!”
“You’ll do that, anyway,” he replied.
She gazed at him strangely, an expression of cruelty in her fine mouth. “Ames Price has been imploring me—for two years now—to marry him,” she said slowly. “I think I’ll do it. Would you mind, Stacey?”
He winced. “Mind? Of course I’d mind! Animal jealousy, too, is a fact—nasty fact like all the rest of them! But go ahead and marry him if you’ll be happy with him.”
Her eyes shone for a moment with triumph. Then she laughed musically. “What a weird afternoon!” she observed, and pressed a bell in the wall. “Come! Let’s have tea. You’re quite Byronic, Stacey!”