He repeated his question in French.
The hands slipped from his eyes to his shoulders. “Well, you’re a nice one! Who should it be? It’s the last time I allow you to play by yourself.”
He swung round and caught her fiercely, shaking her as he pressed her to him.
“Don’t, Meester Deek. You hurt.”
His lips were within an inch of hers; he didn’t try to kiss her. “You leave me alone all day,” he panted; “and then you make a joke of it.”
She drew her fingers down his face. “I was very tired, and—and we weren’t good-tempered. I’ve been lonely, too.” She laid her cheek against his mouth. “Come, kiss me, Meester Deek. You look as though you weren’t ever going to.—I’m glad, so glad that——”
“That what?”
She held her hand against her mouth and laughed into his eyes. “That you haven’t enjoyed yourself without me.”
They climbed to the top of the rock. In the sun-baked warmness of the garden cicalas were still singing. In the town lights were springing up. The after-glow lingered on the mountains. Beneath trees the evening lay silver as moonlight. From a fountain in the middle of a pool rose the statue of Venus aux Hirondelles.
His arm was still about her. Every few paces he stopped to kiss her. She patted his face and drew it close to hers. “You’re foolish,” she whispered. “You spoil me. You’re always nicest when I’ve been my worst.”