"Oh, but Father!" she said, breathlessly, tugging. "He'll be so hurt if we've gone on without him."
Guy felt a stab of jealousy that even a father should intrude upon his birthday kiss for her.
"Oh, very well," he said, half coldly. "If to see me again after a fortnight means so little...."
"Guy," said Pauline, "you're not cross with me? And Father was so sweet about you. He said, 'Is Guy coming to breakfast?' Guy, you mustn't mind if I think a lot about everybody to-day. You see, this is my first birthday when there has been you."
"Oh, don't remind me of the years before we met," said Guy. "I hate them all. No, I don't," he exclaimed in swift penitence. "I love them all. Hurry, darling girl, or we shall miss him."
Pauline's eyes were troubled by a question, behind which lurked a fleeting alarm.
"Kiss me," she murmured. "I was horrid."
A kind of austerity informed their kiss of reconciliation, an austerity that suited the sky of impending rain under which they were standing in the light of the last wan sunbeam. Then they hurried to the churchyard, where in the porch the Rector was looking vaguely round for company he expected.
"Lucky my friend Lorteti came out yesterday. This rain will ruin him. You must take Guy to see that iris, my dear. Fancy! twenty-one to-day! Dear me! dear me! Most remarkable!"
Pauline danced with delight behind the Rector's back.