“Think how much nicer it will be when we can kiss,” said Lily philosophically.
“I don’t believe you care a damn whether we kiss or not,” said Michael.
“Don’t I?” murmured Lily, quickly touching his hand and as quickly withdrawing it to the prison of the muff.
“Ah, do you, Lily?” Michael throbbed out.
“Of course. Now I must go. Good-bye. Don’t forget Saturday in the Gardens, where we met last time. Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye!” She was running from him backwards, forbidding with a wave his sudden step towards her. “No, if you dare to move, I shan’t meet you on Saturday. Be good, be good.”
By her corner she paused, stood on tiptoe for one provocative instant, blew a kiss, laughed her elfin laugh and vanished more swift than any Ariel.
“Damn!” cried Michael sorely, and forthwith set out to walk round West Kensington at five miles an hour, until his chagrin, his disappointment and his heartsick emptiness were conquered, or at any rate sufficiently humbled to make him secure against unmanly tears.
When Saturday finally did arrive, Michael did not sit reading Verlaine, but wandered from tree-trunk to tree-trunk like Orlando in despair. Then Lily came at last sedately, and brought the good news that to-morrow Michael should come to tea at her house.
“But where does your mother think we met?” he asked in perplexity.
“Oh, I told her it was in Kensington Gardens,” said Lily carelessly.