"I said ten o'clock, but it doesn't matter. Only François would have been gone by then. How lovely you are, Evie! How slim and straight and desirable!"
Suddenly she was in his arms, his face against hers. She struggled, pushing him away, escaping at last, too breathless for speech.
"You smother me," she gasped. "Don't kiss me like that, Ronnie. Let's talk. You know I oughtn't to be here," she urged. "But I did so want to see your beautiful house."
He did not take his eyes from her. "You are going to do what I asked you?"
She nodded, shook her head, her heart going furiously. "I don't know—Ronald, I do love you, but I'm so—so frightened."
He drew her down to him and she sat demurely on the edge of the deep lounge chair he occupied.
"And I'll take you to—where shall I take you?" he bantered.
"Somewhere in Italy, you said."
"Palermo! Glorious Palermo—darling, think of what it will be, just you and I. No more snatched meetings and disagreeable sisters, eh?"
Evie was thinking: he did not break in upon her thoughts. She was good to see. More attractive in her silence, for she had the slightest of cockney twangs.