“There is one pledge I will never break, Pen,” he said tenderly. “I'll never fail to do every possible thing to make you happy.”
“Will you take me back to Paris, Chris? I want to spend a whole year in Paris with you. We'll go to fine hotels along the Champs Élysées, we'll prowl through those queer places in Montmartre, remember? and once you'll take me to a students' ball, won't you, dear? I'd love to dance at a students' ball—with you!” Her eyes burned on him under fluttering black lashes—such long curling lashes! “Let's drink to Paris—toi et moi, tous les deux ensemble, pas? Come!” She snatched up her glass again and emptied it quickly.
A spirit of wild gaiety and abandon had caught Penelope—there was no restraining her. They must sit on the divan under that dull blue light, and talk of their love—their wonderful love that had swept aside all barriers—while she smoked another cigarette. Christopher forgot to be afraid—he, too, was young! Vive la joie!
She nestled close to him against the pillows and, as they talked in low tones, he drew her closer, breathing the perfume of her hair. She caught his hand and clung to it, then slowly, restlessly, her fingers moved along his arm.
“My love! My love!” she whispered.
“Sweetheart!” he looked deep into her soul, his heart pounding furiously.
“It was horrid of me, Chris, to make you promise—that,” she bent close offering him her lips.
“Promise what?” he asked unsteadily.
“Oh, Chris,” she whispered and her soft form seemed to envelope him. “I am yours, yours!”
Then silence fell in the room while she pressed her eager mouth to his.