He shut the book up, contriving to let his hand find hers as she contrived to let it stay there without seeming of intent.
"What is it, John?" she whispered again.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"Nothing except just what I said. I wanted to say good-night." Yet he still lingered; still, without keeping it, his hand remained in hers.
For some while he stayed there, sitting on her bed, saying nothing, playing only with his fingers that held her hand. With a supreme patience she waited in silence, knowing no words were needed there, her heart throbbing with an expectant pulse that rose to riot as suddenly he slipped on to his knees on the floor and leant his head against her breast.
"I want her, Mater," he whispered. "Haven't you guessed that? I'm terribly in love."
Had she guessed that? Indeed! But had she ever dreamt or hoped for this, that his first love-making would be through her? This was the first love scene, the first passion in the drama of his life and in awe of what it was, he had chosen her to play it with.
Emotions such as were triumphant in Mary Throgmorton then cannot easily be captured. Here in certain fact was the first hour of love her heart had surely known; an hour, albeit not her own, which for the rest of her life was to remain with its burning embers in her memory.
With deep breaths she lay for a moment still, holding him in her arms.
"Haven't you told her, John?" she asked presently.