‘Wouldn’t I be tired,’ said Catherine, making an effort to laugh; and, instead of laughing, crying.
Crying. The worst thing possible for her eyes. She would be a real, unmistakable hag in the morning.
‘Why, what is it, my precious little thing?’ exclaimed Christopher, feeling her face suddenly wet, and greatly surprised and distressed.
‘It’s nothing—I’m just tired,’ she said, hurriedly wiping her eyes and determined no more tears should screw themselves out.
‘I was a selfish idiot not to think how bored you must be,’ he said, anxiously kissing and loving her. ‘I saw you talking to Fanshawe, and thought you looked quite happy——’
‘Oh yes—so I was.’
‘Catherine—little thing——’
He kissed her again and again, and she kissed him back, and managed to laugh.
‘Darling Chris,’ she said, nestling close, ‘I don’t believe I’m any good at dances.’
‘You will be when I’ve taught you. You’ll dance like a little angel. We’ll get a gramophone to-morrow.’