"Really."
He looks at her, but she refuses to understand his appealing expression, and regards him calmly in return.
"Cecil, how cold you are!" he says, reproachfully. "Think how long I have been away from you, and what a journey I have come."
"True; you must be hungry." With willful ignorance of his meaning.
"I am not." Indignantly. "But I think you might—after three weary months, that to me, at least, were twelve—you might——"
"You want me to—kiss you?" says Cecil, promptly, but with a rising blush. "Well, I will, then."
Lifting her head, she presses her lips to his with a fervor that takes him utterly by surprise.
"Cecil," whispers he, growing a little pale, "do you mean it?"
"Mean what?" Coloring crimson now, but laughing also. "I mean this: if we don't go down-stairs soon luncheon will be cold. And, remember, I hold you to your engagement. You dine with me to-day. Is not that so?"
"You know how glad I shall be."