"Yes, I know you warned me," he said rather jerkily. "I quite realize that it's my funeral—not yours. I shan't ask you to be chief mourner either. I've always considered that when a man makes a fool of himself over a woman it's up to him to bear the consequences without asking her to share them."
"But we're not talking of—funerals," said Juliet.
"Aren't we?" His hand tightened for a moment upon hers. "I thought we were. What is it then?"
She smiled at him with a whimsical sadness in the weird storm-light. "I think there are a good many names for it," she said. "I call it midsummer madness myself."
He made a quick gesture of protest. "Do you? Oh, I know a better name than that. But you don't want to hear it. I believe you are afraid of me. It sounds preposterous. But I believe you are."
Her hand stirred within his, but not as though seeking to escape. "No, I don't think so," she said, and in her voice was a sound as if laughter and tears were striving together for the mastery. "But I'm trying—so dreadfully hard—to be—discreet. I don't want you to let yourself go too far. It's so difficult—you don't know how difficult it is—to get back afterwards."
"Good heavens!" he said. "Don't you realize that I passed the turning-back stage long ago."
"Oh, I hope not!" she said quickly. "I hope not!"
"Then I am afraid you are doomed to disappointment," he said, with a touch of cynicism. "But I am sure you are far too sensible—discreet, I mean—to let that worry you. And anyway," he smiled abruptly, "I don't want you to be worried—just when you're having such a jolly time at the Court too."
"You're very sarcastic," said Juliet.