Her lips sought his and clung to them. A queer little wave of passion seemed to have seized her. Half crying, half laughing, she pressed her face against his. "I do not want to act to-night. I do not want to play, even to the most wonderful audience in the world. I do not want to shake hands with many hundreds of people at that hateful reception. I think I want nothing else in the world but you!"
She lay, for a moment, passive in his arms. He smoothed her hair and kissed her tenderly. Then he led her back to her place upon the couch. Her emotional mood, while it flattered him in a sense, did nothing to quiet the little demons of unrest that pulled, every now and then, at his heart-strings.
"What is this reception?" he asked.
She made a little grimace.
"It is a formal welcome from the English stage to the French company that has come over to play at the new French theater," she told him. "Sir Edward and I are to receive them. You will come, will you not?"
"I haven't an invitation," he told her.
"Invitation? I invite you. I am the hostess of the evening."
"Then I am not likely to refuse, am I?" he asked, smiling. "Shall I come to the theater?"
"Come straight to the reception at the Whitehall Rooms," she begged. "Sir Edward is calling for me, and Graillot will go down with us. Later, if you care to, you can drive me home."
"Don't you think," he suggested, "that it would be rather a good opportunity to announce our engagement?"