"Nothing!" he retorted stoutly. "Still, the door is open, and some one might——"
"Why, you're quite cold! ... Basil, what is it?"
"Nothing—nothing at all," replied he, his arms round her again, his lips upon hers.
Presently she said: "I thought you were neglecting me rather long. It's a habit men have after—after a woman is entirely theirs."
"Don't say those things, even in joke," he begged, so seriously that it jarred on her overwrought nerves.
"If you take that sort of remarks in earnest," said she, a trace of resentment in her tone, "I'll be likely to believe there's something in it."
"It was so—so frank," apologized he.
"Why not speak frankly?" said she. "One of the joys of loving you is that we'll be entirely frank with each other. I'll never be afraid to show you how much I love you, or to say whatever thought comes into my mind. And you must feel that you can be your natural self always, can speak out any thought you may have, no matter what it is. All that doesn't mean much to you. But to me—" She drew a long, deep breath. "You—a man—couldn't possibly know how delicious it is to a woman to be able to be her—her naked self! ... You're not listening. You don't hold me tightly. Are you shocked?"
"No," answered he with constraint. "I keep thinking of—of—that door."
She was silent, offended.