The opposition of two such fair planets, no less than their several conjunction with stars almost as bright, was bound to excite remark.
Eyebrows were raised; whispers were repeated; nudges were covertly exchanged. Soon an impatient confidence that smoke so thick must be the greasy harbinger of conflagration set tongues wagging.
It was on the evening of the nineteenth of April, as Mrs. Willoughby and Herrick were returning by taxi from choosing a breakfast set, that the latter threw his cigarette out of the window, took the lady in his arms and kissed her upon the mouth.
“David!”
She shook him off and shrank into her corner, trembling violently.
Herrick took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. This was unnaturally pale.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I beg your pardon. I—I don’t know why I did it. I think—I think it was your perfume. I shall smell it all my life, dear . . . your faint perfume.”
“David!”
The horror of the girl’s tone was reflected in her beautiful eyes.