“You told me a lie about your age,” Lily retorted. “And I’ve told mother a lie on your account, so you needn’t be so particular. And if you think you’re going to make me cry, you’re not.”
She sat down on a seat and looked out at the bare woodland with sullen eyes.
“Has Drake ever dared to make love to you?” demanded Michael.
“That’s my business,” said Lily. “You’ve no right to ask me questions like that.”
Michael looked at her so adorable even now, and suddenly throwing his dignity to the dead leaves, he sat close beside her caressingly.
“Darling Lily,” he whispered, “it was my fault. I lied first. I don’t care how much you talked about me. I don’t care about anything but you. I’ll even say Drake is a decent chap—though he really isn’t even moderately decent. Lily, we had such a rotten Wednesday, and to-day ought to be perfect. Will you forgive me? Will you?”
And the quarrel was over.
“But you don’t care anything about Drake?” Michael asked, when half an hour had dreamed itself away.
“Of course not,” she reassured him. “Arthur likes Doris better than me.”
“But he mustn’t like Doris,” said Michael eagerly. “At least she mustn’t like him. Because I’ve got a friend—at least three million times as decent as Drake—who wants to be in love with Doris, or rather he will want to be when he sees her.”