She hesitated, and smiled encouragingly.
He blushed under his heavy tan. "We can only give it to mother, or sister, or—or—or the girl we ... we're engaged to."
"Well, we're not related." She twisted a spray of hydrangea into her hair.
He unpinned the black enameled symbol, his heart jumping violently, and moved closer. With a pretty gesture, she indicated where he should place it.
The cool fragrance of her made him giddy. One loose strand of hair brushed against his forehead, causing him to tingle and tickle all over.... He wanted to bruise her against his body, as on mad moonlit nights he had flung himself around some rough-barked oak on the summit. Ignorant that girls, not in books, at times felt such emotions, he affixed the pin with impersonal decorum. Then he slid to the ground beside her feet, and stared against the burning sunset.
When the sun dropped back of his hill, he rose gropingly. It was hard to phrase some things; he was desperately anxious not to appear ridiculous in her eyes. Yet, unless all of his reading was wrong, something more was expected of a man in love.
"I—I ought to kiss you, if we're engaged."
She closed her eyes, docilely.
He held her lithe cool body, and he felt the rapture of brushing his lips against her own.
He led the way down the path, exaggeratedly attentive.