For a moment he sat motionless, drinking in her splendid beauty, then he leaned towards her impulsively and spoke one word that carried all the devotion of his soul: “Penelope!”
“Dear boy!” she murmured, her voice thrilling, and a moment later he had clasped her in his arms.
“You're mine! You love me! Thank God!”
But she disengaged herself gently, there was something she wished to say. She would not deny her love, her great love for him. She realized that she had loved him from the first. Her resistance had been part of her illness—it was not coquetry, he must not think that. Now her eyes were opened and her heart was singing with joy. She was the happiest woman in the world at the thought that she was to be his wife.
“My darling! How I love you!” exclaimed Christopher, drawing her towards him, his lips seeking hers.
“No—no,” Penelope's voice was so serious, so full of alarm that her lover instantly obeyed. He drew away from her with a hurt, puzzled expression in his eyes. Very gravely Penelope went on. “I love you, too, my darling, but I must ask you to make me a solemn promise. I shall be most unhappy if you refuse. I want you to promise not to kiss me,—as—as lovers kiss, passionately, ardently, until after we are married.”
“But, Pen, you—can't mean that seriously?”
With a wistful little smile she assured him that she did mean it most seriously.
In vain he protested. “But why? It's so absurd! Why shouldn't I kiss you when I love you better than anything in the world.”
“Chris, please, please don't talk like that. You must trust me and do what I ask. You must, dear!”