The first impulse of a coquetry in reality foreign to her nature stirred in Lily.
"No one ever has, yet," she said, and smiled.
"I know that, my dear. I was sure of it. You're like your name—a little, untouched flower."
A tiny thrill shot through her at the words, the first approach to direct love-making that she had ever heard addressed to herself. She felt sorry when the characteristic British reaction against an open expression of sentiment came swiftly from Nicholas.
"You see, you're actually making me poetical!" he exclaimed, with a hastiness that obviously covered a certain confusion, and if his ensuing laugh was jerky and over-prolonged, it needed but little intuition this time to attribute it to scarcely disguised nervousness.
"What did Father say?" Lily asked, in reality speaking almost at random so that he should stop that unamused, spasmodic laughter.
"He was very kind to me, and gave me leave to come down here whenever I like. So you see, I can come for my answer as soon as you like to send for me. But you're a little fraud, my dear, to turn the conversation like that! Will you let me have one thing to remember?"
He was looking full at her with ardent and yet kindly eyes.
Lily nodded faintly.
As he bent over her she raised her head a little and turned her face sideways to him, closing her eyes. For the fraction of a second Nicholas Aubray hesitated, and then stooped and kissed her very softly on the cheek.