“Oh, not yet.” He felt that he was going to lose her—lose her forever. Surely, surely he could rouse her to a sense of the poetry and drama which was burning in his blood. It was impossible that she should not feel it. She had been sleeping, as he had been sleeping, letting love go by with its banners and drums. “Oh, not yet,” he pleaded; “all these years we’ve lived—we’ve hardly ever been together.”
She broke the suspense by laughing. “What’s your favorite hymn, Peter?”
He was puzzled. “Haven’t got one. Never thought about it. What makes you ask?”
She wriggled her shoulders. “Because mine’s ‘Yield not to temptation.’”
He didn’t catch the significance of her remark. She saw that. “Still a little boy, aren’t you? A little boy of nineteen, who thinks he’s in love. There are heaps of other girls in the world.—Yes, I’ll come.”
He piled the cushions for her; then took the paddle and seated himself so he could face her. Their conversation was carried on by fits and starts, with long pauses.
“He was a beast.” She spoke reflectively.
“Who was?”
“Hardcastle.”
“But I thought—I was afraid you liked him.”