‘Yes.’
The word was just audible, a breath, no more.
‘You dear!’ she said; and, leaning nearer and yet nearer to him, she laid her lips on his. They rested there for one thrilling instant, and then she drew back an inch or two only. ‘Make it up about that,’ she said, looking point blank into his eyes. Paul drooped his head and the lips met again, and fastened. A delicate fire burned him, and he curled his arm about her waist, and drew her to him. She yielded for one instant, and then slipped away with a panting laugh. ‘Oh, Paul?’ she said; ‘you really are too dreadful for anything! Fancy! A mere child like you. I should like to know what Mr. Filmer’d say if ever he knew I’d let ee do that.’
By one of those curious intuitions to which the mind is open at times of profound excitement, Paul knew what her answer would be, but he asked the question. At first his voice made no sound; but he cleared his throat and spoke dryly, and in a tone of commonplace:
‘Who is Mr. Filmer?’
‘Mr. Filmer’s the gentleman I’m going to be married to,’ said May. ‘He’s a very jealous temper, and I shouldn’t like him to know I’d been flirting, even with a child like you.’
It was all over.
CHAPTER IV
Paul survived. He left the church, and returned with a doubtful allegiance to Ebenezer. He joined the singing-class there, for his voice had suddenly grown harsh and deep, and he conceived himself to be a basso. The parish swarmed with vocal celebrities, and he would be one of them. He made his first visit to the class, and got there early.