“So, honey, jest play in your own backyard.”
He wondered how any one so beautiful could be so cruel. She seemed to regard herself as a shrine at which it was ordained that men should worship, while her right was to view them with neither heat nor coldness. “Slaves of freedom”—Horace’s words came back.
He caught up with her. “Why did you tell me? I didn’t mean to speak crossly.”
“Didn’t you?”
“I didn’t, really. I’m sorry. But why did you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to be honest: to let you know the kind of girl I am. And because,” her eyes flooded, “because you’re the first man who ever kissed me like that and—and I didn’t want to let you know it—and I wish I hadn’t let you kiss me now.”
She didn’t give him her lips this time. With her face averted, she lay trembling in his arms without a struggle. While his lips wandered from her hair to her cheeks, to her throat, she seemed unconscious of what he was doing. “I do like being kissed by you,” she murmured.
“You’re so fragrant, so soft, so sweet, so like a lily,” he whispered.
Her finger went up to her mouth. “Am I fragrant? That isn’t me. That’s just soap.”
She sprang from his embrace laughing; he joined her in sheer gladness that their quarrel was ended.