"Suppose," said Mordaunt gently, "you leave off thinking for a bit, and take things as they come."
"Yes?" she said rather dubiously.
He bent down to her. "Chris, I will never ask more of you than you are able to give."
She moved at that in her quick, impulsive way, reached up and clasped his neck. "Oh, Trevor, I do love you!" she said, with a catch in her voice. "I do want you to have—the best!"
Her face was raised to his. For the first time she offered him her lips. They were nearer to understanding each other at that moment than they had ever been before.
But as he bent lower to kiss her the notes of the piano floated out to them again, this time in a soft melody, inexpressibly sweet, full of a subtle charm, the fairy gold of romance.
She kissed him indeed—and it was the first kiss she had ever given him; but he felt her stiffen in his hold even as she did it. And the next moment, almost with passion, she spoke—
"I wish Rupert wouldn't play that thing! He knows—he knows—that I can't bear it!"
"What is it?" Mordaunt asked in surprise.
She answered him with a laugh that did not ring quite true. "It is the 'Aubade à la Fiancée.' He is only playing it to torment us. Let us go in and stop him!"