"I love to be near you, John," she whispered; "I like your being so tall and so distinguished-looking. I like your clothes—they are so well made—" and then she wrinkled her pretty nose—"and I adore the smell of the stuff you put on your hair! Oh! I don't know—I just want to be in your arms!"
John kissed her. "I must give you a bottle of that lotion—it is supposed to do wonders for the hair. It was originally made by an old housekeeper of my mother's family in the still room, and I have always kept the receipt—there are cloves in it and some other aromatic herbs."
"Yes, that is what I smell, like a clove carnation—it is divine. I wonder why scents have such an effect upon one—don't you? Perhaps I am a very sensuous creature—they can make me feel wicked or good—some scents make me deliciously intoxicated—that one of yours does—when I get near you—I want you to hold me and kiss me—John."
Every fibre of John Ardayre's being quivered with pain. The cruel, ironical bitterness of things.
"I've never smelt this same scent on any one else," she went on, rubbing her soft cheek up and down against his shoulder in the most alluring way. "I should know it anywhere for it means just my dear—John!"
He turned away on the pretence of getting a cigarette; he knew that his eyes had filled with tears.
Then Murcheson came into the room with the coffee, and this made a break—and he immediately asked her to play to him, and settled himself in one of the big chairs. He was too much on the rack to continue any more love-making then; "what might have been" caused too poignant anguish.
He watched her delicate profile outlined against the curtain of green silk. It was so pure and young—and her long throat was white as milk. If this time next year she should have a child—a son—and he, not killed, but sitting there perhaps watching her holding it. How would he feel then? Would the certainty of having an Ardayre carry on heal the wild rebellion in his soul?
"Ah, God!" he prayed, "take away all feeling—reward this sacrifice—let the family go on."
"You don't think you will have really to go to the war, do you, John?" Amaryllis asked after she left the piano. "It will be all over, won't it, before the New Year, and in any case the Yeomanry are only for home defence, aren't they?" and she took a low seat and rested her head against his arm.