She roused herself and smiled at him, a wonderful, wide smile. She was very grateful to this new friend of hers for his sympathy, his understanding, grateful for the glimpse he had given her of a world hitherto unguessed, grateful for the look in his eyes at that moment.
"I do wish," she said, holding out both hands, "that I knew how to—to thank you!"
Channing's admirable self-control slipped a cog. He took the hands. "I can show you how to thank me," he said, quite hoarsely for a mere collector of impressions.
She jerked her hands away, dimpling, and jumped out of the car. The imminent prospect of being kissed had not shocked her—in fact, she was rather surprised that she had not been kissed before. But she had her instincts of the sex that flees. So she turned and ran, neither very fast nor very far—
"Dear me!" she whispered presently against Channing's lips, "what would old Philip say to this? He told me I couldn't be too careful with strange men. I'm not being very careful, am I?"
"Damn Philip! Kiss me again," said the author.
Breathless and radiant, she ran her blithe way up the dark hill road. She had been hungry for other things than music and sympathy and friendship, this youngest of the wild Kildares of Storm.
Her mother was standing in the door, Philip Benoix beside her.
"There you are, Jacky girl! I was just about to send Philip out to find you, gadabout. Have you had any supper?"
"Oh, yes, Mummy darling, I took some with me." It was the first lie of Jacqueline's life, and the ease with which it came surprised her. She ran into her mother's arms and hugged her close. "Oh, Mummy, I am so happy, happy!"