"How impatient you are!" she said, with a smile.
For a woman who held her fate at bay it was admirably done; but for Chris—little Chris of the sunny eyes and eager, impetuous actions—it was so overwhelming a failure that Mordaunt, standing on the threshold, made no movement to enter, but stood, and looked and looked, as though he had never seen her before.
She met the look as a duellist meets his opponent's blade, instantly but warily, summoning all the craft of her newly awakened womanhood to her aid. She was not conscious of agitation. Her heart felt as if it were turned to stone; it did not seem to be beating at all.
"Well," she said, as he did not speak, "have you got through your business in town?"
He did not answer her, but came straight forward into the room, took her by the shoulders, and drew her round so that she faced the light. "What have you been doing?" he said.
She faced him unshrinking, undismayed. The Chris of a few hours before would have drawn back in open fear from the piercing scrutiny of those grey eyes, but this Chris was different. This Chris was a woman with pale lips that smiled a baffling smile and eyes that barred the way to her soul, a woman who had found in her womanhood a weapon of defence that no man could thrust aside.
"I haven't been doing anything," she said indifferently, "except run round after Aunt Philippa—oh yes, and write up to town for some things I wanted. Aunt Philippa is really going to leave us to-day week. I can't think what we shall do without her, can you? Now tell me about your doings."
She lifted her face suddenly for his kiss, ignoring the fact that he was still holding her as if for inquisition.
He drew her sharply into his arms and held her fast. "You are very cold, sweetheart," he said.
She flushed a little at his action, though the lips he kissed were like ice. "I am tired," she said.